Daylight Can Be So Violent
by graceofnight
Summary: A new enemy, or perhaps a very old one, threatens the Pole. Old friends return and new friends are made as Bernard discovers the truth about his past and the origin of all the elves. Revelations are made, the stakes are higher than ever, and Bernard must come to terms with his shifting world in this sequel to "In the Silence of the Night." (Highly recommend you read that first.)
1. Prologue: Threats, Fears, & Wasted Years

Welcome back everyone, and welcome to the sequel of In the Silence of the Night, which I strongly recommend you read before reading this, or else you're probably going to be rather confused. Enjoy.

* * *

 **Prologue: Threats, Fear, and Wasted Years**

The clock sounded eight o'clock on Christmas Eve night, and Bernard sat at his desk doing something he had not done in many a year. A hammer, a wrench, several screwdrivers and an odd assortment of bolts, washers, screws, and scraps of metal lay scattered across his desk as he tinkered. He had little else to do, and his mind was in a race against panic and frustration as he waited out his house arrest.

The screwdriver twisted in his fingers. Latches clicked, screws turned, and his mind ran in circles. He had no project in mind, no end to his means but to give his nervous hands something to do. He knew at the start that leaving a sentient rubber Santa in charge while the real one went away was a terrible idea, but the day anyone started listening to him was the day he would look to the sky for the flying pigs and other signs of the End of Days. In any case, the factory had fallen to the army of toy soldiers, and here he was, stuck in his room under house arrest, without a clue what to do about. So he continued to think and to tinker.

A sharp rapping sounded on his narrow window.

"Curtis!"

His second in command hovered in front of the window, an E.L.F.S. hoverpack strapped to his back. Bernard opened the window, but it was far too narrow to permit him to enter, or Bernard to exit for that matter.

"Why don't you just zap your way out of there?"

"If the Toy Santa comes up here and finds me gone, he might do something terrible to the elves. You go. I'll stay and protect them as much as I can."

"What are you gonna do if he does?"

"I'll think of something. Now go."

As Curtis buzzed away on the hoverpack, Bernard closed the window and picked up his tools again. Truthfully, he had no idea what he would do if the toy soldiers attacked the elves. He hoped, if the situation arose, something would come to him. As his fingers continued to twist screws and flip switched, his mind strayed far away into another time. The Pole was in danger then too, and just as now, he could do very little to prevent catastrophe, beyond sit back and let others solve his problems for him.

He threw his tools back onto his desk. As the screwdriver rolled amongst the washers and bolts and other mechanical debris, he wondered if he could just take apart the toy soldiers by hand. He growled at his own foolishness, knowing full well that the toy soldiers now numbered in at least the dozens, and his door was locked.

He sighed. Nuts, bolts, screws, and screwdrivers littered his desk. Sitting in one corner, isolated from the mess, was a snow globe. He had given one quite similar to it to Charlie Calvin, the son of their current Santa, whose shenanigans had contributed to the situation in which the elves were currently embroiled. This one had an ornate silver base, the bottom of which was inlaid with purple and scarlet gems. He had long ago given this one to someone else, someone he had not seen in over a century but had thought about still more often than he would care to admit.

He picked up the snow globe and turned it over. Watching the flakes swirl in the water, he willed her face to appear. Doubtless she would know what to do about the Toy Santa and his army of toy soldiers. She would have shouted them into submission or joined up with Quinton and skulked through secret corridors on some crazy scheme while simultaneously fixing everything with Charlie and finding the perfect woman to become Mrs. Claus and saving Christmas in the the nick of time.

But she was gone.

The glittering flakes swirled in the watery interior of the globe. If Bernard closed his eyes and thought hard, he could still see her face inside his mind. Another time, a mere shake of this globe would have brought him to her, but no more. He stared deeper still into the shimmering vortex. In the low light, the specks of snow blurred. He imagined he could see silver leaves fluttering in a breeze he could not feel or stars twinkling in a far away sky.

He sighed and returned the globe to its home in the corner of his desk, knowing that, for now, his place was here and that once again, the rescue of the Pole would fall to others more capable of the task than himself. He picked up his tools again.

* * *

A few hundred miles away, a small town lay still under a blanket of snow. Cloud cover blocked the light from the stars and hung heavy with more snow. The street lights had gone out, and all but a few determined night owls had gone to bed. Silence crept through the village like fog.

A shape unfurled in the night, unseen against the snow, unheard by the villagers in their slumber. It slunk from house to house, bypassing fences and mailboxes until it came to a cul-de-sac where one house stood isolated from the others.

Bricks and mortar meant nothing. It was in the house. It ignored the unlit Christmas tree. It ignored the furniture, the food, the valuables, the parents dozing in the large bedroom at the back of the house. It found the nursery. It smiled.

In the morning, the parents awoke to find their child cold and unmoving, his breath stolen while he slept. The villagers gossiped their sympathies at the sudden death, a terrible tragedy on its own, but on Christmas Eve of all nights.

The poor child must have died in his sleep, they whispered.

They were wrong.

* * *

 **A/N:** Well, I'm back. My break lasted longer than I originally planned, but I'm back, and the entire story is outlined and ready to be written. I even know how it's going to end this time, unlike the last one, which I was still planning at the absolute last moment.

Story Title: "No Light, No Light" - Florence and the Machine

Chapter Title: "Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are" - Meatloaf

I'll try to post Chapter One tomorrow if I'm not totally swamped with cooking.

Have a good holiday everyone, and Merry Christmas!


	2. Visions Softly Creeping

I'm just going to stop giving myself deadlines, okay?

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Visions Softly Creeping**

To say that Bernard was distracted would be an understatement of extraordinary proportions. The whirring of power tools, the hammering of nails, the chattering of elves, and the rest of the collective din of the workshop washed over him as his mind drifted elsewhere. Ordinarily he was no daydreamer, but he had woken that morning with a dull pain behind his eyes and no recollection of the dreams that had kept him tossing and turning all night.

His mind continued to wander about as he trudged through the gilded halls of the North Pole. He was due in a matter of minutes at their Quarterly Meeting to discuss the elves' progress, new output from Research and Development, and any other important goings on at the Pole, but his body fervently wished it was back in his bed, and his mind was anywhere but where it belonged. So firmly trapped in Dreamland was he, that he barely registered the pattering of feet as someone approached him.

"Bernard!"

He focused back on the present as Audrey, a little elf girl in the List Department, skipped up to him. She wore a cream-colored knitted dress splotched at the wrist with ink stains and an anxious expression on her heart-shaped face.

"Bernard! Wait up a minute. I need to talk to you."

"Later, Audrey," he droned.

"But it's really important!"

"Not now!"

The area around them went quiet as the cruel tone of his words hung in their air. Bernard stopped in his tracks and turned around. Audrey looked as though he had slapped her.

"I'm sorry. What is it?"

Relief and uncertainty mingled on her face as she began to explain.

Bernard barely heard a word.

Her words hung around him but never registered, like the hum of a vacuum cleaner. He tried to listen, to understand who was so important to her, but her speech faded away into the busy cacophony of the factory floor. Across the factory, outside in the village, alone under a pine stood a figure cloaked in the bloodest of reds. A hood lined in dark fur completely obscured the figure's face. It appeared to be looking around, unmoving, not interacting, just surveying the landscape with ambivalent curiosity.

"-and I can't find any explanation for it."

Bernard looked back at Audrey.

"I know, this isn't our jurisdiction, but if we don't look into it, who will?"

Bernard found himself at a loss. The figure in red had so completely captured his attention that he hadn't the slightest idea what she was talking about. He looked outside once more. The figure was gone.

"Well?" asked Audrey, rocking on her heels. "What do you think?"

He stared at her expectant face and watched it fall as she realized he hadn't been listening.

"I'm sorry, Audrey. What were you-?"

A great chime echoed through the factory and rattled his already aching head.

"Any chance that clock is fast?"

"I don't think so," said Audrey, pushing her glasses back onto her nose.

"Dangit. I'm late. Go find Curtis and ask him. If we need to look into it, he'll tell me."

He tried very hard to ignore the stricken and disappointed look on Audrey's face as he sprinted away and put thoughts of the mysterious cloaked figure out of his mind.

Minutes later, he sat in the ornate office and tried to follow the meeting's agenda. Bernard once again allowed his attention to wander and his boss's voice to fade into an auditory blur as he looked out the window. He saw the ordinary hustle and bustle of life at the Pole. The Polar Bear Orson directed traffic at the corner, his father Sigmund having finally retired. A group of young reindeer trainees practiced flight maneuvers, a group of elves on a break engaged in an epic snow battle, and so forth. Bernard's attention was drawn a few dozen feet away from the snowfight.

Alone by the reindeer paddock, hidden from the view of the people below, stood the figure in the red cloak, the fur-lined hood once again drawn over its eyes and obscuring its face. It appeared to be watching the progressing snowfight. Bernard stared at the figure for several seconds and tried to work out who it might be. He thought wildly for a moment that the figure appeared to be getting closer and closer to the factory every time he saw it. Yet no one outside paid it any attention, nor did they seem to sense its presence at all.

A sharp bang brought Bernard back into the room. Santa had clapped his hands loudly in front of Bernard's face in a desperate bid to regain his attention.

"What's going on out there?" he asked, looking out the window in an attempt to discover what was so interesting that it had pulled his Head Elf's focus away from an important meeting.

It occurred to Bernard to say something, to tell his boss about the mysterious figure in red. He looked back out on the grounds of the Pole. By then the snowball fight had a clear victor, the reindeer were munching hay from their troughs, and the figure in red was gone. Perhaps it had never been there.

"Nothing, sir," he said and forced a smile. "Nothing at all."

Bernard forced himself to focus through the rest of the meeting. Then they dismissed for lunch. Bernard found he couldn't stomach any food and instead spent the entire time wishing he was back in his rooms sleeping a dreamless sleep and not wondering about strange hooded figures lurking about his workplace.

Later that day, he accompanied Santa and his wife Carol on a walk over the grounds, whereupon they examined the trainee reindeer's formation progress and socialized with the elves hovering about the grounds. A young elf named Leroy was attempting to tempt Santa with a game of tinsel football when Bernard scanned the grounds again. The grounds themselves appeared fine and busy as ever with activity. Then he looked up toward the buildings, and that's where he saw it. Standing alone on the bridge was the figure in the red cloak. This time, despite the hood still drawn over its face, the figure appeared to be staring at him. Bernard started walking toward it. Logically he knew he would never catch the person, that he would flee before Bernard could ever hope to reach him, but he was struck by a sudden instinctive need to capture this mysterious figure before it could vanish once again. He didn't get very far when he was once again drawn back to the present, this time by the sharp but gentle voice of Santa's wife.

"Bernard, what is it? What's wrong?"

Bernard stopped and turned around. Leroy was staring at him as though he might at any moment catch fire. Bernard stared back, suddenly self-conscious and certainly unwilling to come clean about what he'd seen with the younger elf standing there.

"Leroy," began Santa, sensing Bernard's misgivings. "Why don't you run along. We can talk defensive strategies later."

Once Leroy had run off looking confused, Santa swooped in toward Bernard, suddenly realizing something was indeed amiss with his Head Elf.

"Bernard, what's going on? You've been acting weird all day."

"Nothing's wrong, Sir. I just-"

Bernard trailed off as his boss and his boss's former-school principal wife both gave him hard, stern stares that told him quite clearly he wasn't getting off the hook that easily. He sighed.

"I didn't sleep well last night. And now I think I might be seeing things."

"What kinds of things?" asked Carol.

"I keep seeing a figure in red hanging around the Pole."

Carol and Scott exchanged confused glances.

"Uh, Bernard, do you think it could maybe, possibly be _me_ you're seeing?" said Santa, gesturing widely at his bright red coat. Bernard felt very silly for a moment but shook his head.

"No, he was wearing more like a cloak and a darker red, with brown fur on the hood, not white. And you've been standing right next to me twice that I've seen it. I think it's following me. The last time I saw it, I'm-I'm pretty sure it was staring at me."

Santa looked wildly around in search of the mysterious figure. Mrs. Claus stepped forward and placed her hands on either side of Bernard's face. Sensing his immediate discomfort at being touched in such a motherly fashion, she slid her hands down to his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

"Bernard, are you feeling all right?"

"I feel fine," he said, knowing it was a lie. The pain was still behind his eyes, and he felt exhausted. Worse still, as the lie escaped his lips, Carol frowned at him, and he could see in the back of his mind another disapproving face that had once belonged to someone who could catch his dishonesty and force the truth out of him with a word and a look. Bernard closed his eyes and tried to shake the face from his memory. It had been a long time, but not long enough, since those memories had resurfaced.

Santa, having satisfied himself that the mysterious cloaked figure wasn't going to leap out of the shadows and devour their souls, turned back toward them.

"Are you sure? Because if I didn't know you better, I'd say you look hungover."

Bernard tried to glare at his boss but only succeeded in looking tired and frustrated.

"Maybe you should take the rest of the day off."

Bernard's eyes widened in horror. "No, sir, really I'm fine. There's no need for me to-"

"Bernard, I'm not asking you to walk off a cliff onto sharp rocks. C'mon, when's the last time you took a day off, much less half of one?"

"141 years, eight months, and 10 days," was what Bernard wanted to say, but instead he settled on a look that was somewhere between a plea for mercy and a sulk.

"He's right. You've been overworked for too long, and you look exhausted. Things are quiet here, and the workshop will keep a while without you. Go up and rest a bit."

Carol's earnest expression was difficult to deny, but Bernard shook his head.

"There's so much to do, and it's really not necessary," he insisted. Then he saw their faces once again adopt that stern expression of two people who had teamed up against him and would no longer take no for an answer.

As he trudged up the golden staircase toward his bedroom, his limbs seemed to grow heavy, and the climb seemed longer than it had since he was small, so very long ago. Not once did he dare move his eyes from directly in front of him for fear he would see that apparition again. He knew they were right to insist he have a rest, but at the same time, he felt hesitant to return to his room. The clamor of the workshop, no matter how loud it remained nor how steadily it washed over him, was a comfort, reminding him of his job, his purpose, and that he was never truly alone as long as he continued to toil at his work. Yet in the silence of his room he had privacy and, under ordinary circumstances, peaceful solitude.

Eager all of a sudden to be away from the noise and inane chatter, he leaped the last few steps and strode toward his bedroom. He opened the door and walked in, and his heart leaped into his throat. Beside the window, looking out onto the grounds, stood the figure cloak in red. Its hood, all scarlet wool and lined with brown fox fur, was still drawn up and obscured the intruder's face.

"Who are you?" Bernard heard himself ask.

The intruder turned his head slightly, indicating that he had heard the question, but did not immediately respond. If Bernard didn't know any better, he might have said the cloaked figure seemed uncertain.

"Who _are_ you?" demanded Bernard. "What are you doing here?"

At last, the figure reached up and lowered its hood, revealing a sheet of fair brown hair. The figure turned, and Bernard gasped.

"Hello, Bernard."

The voice shook like leaves trembling in the wind. As the hybrid of European timbre echoed in his ears and in his mind, the pounding in his heart turned to thunder.

"You haven't aged a day."

Lydia Hightower took a step toward Bernard. He saw her reach a hand out toward him, but the image began to blur. His vision went black, and he knew nothing else.

* * *

A/N: I feel compelled to give my usual "Please review" speech, but please, please, please don't kill me.

Chapter Title: "Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel.


	3. Freeze Thy Blood Less Coldly

Wow, three chapters in less than six months. This is almost unheard of for me. Luckily I had most of the work done for this one. Enjoy.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Freeze Thy Blood Less Coldly**

Bernard's vision swam as he floated toward consciousness. His eyes focused as he recognized the ceiling of his bedroom and began to wonder what he was doing on the floor.

"Thank goodness," a voice said. "I was beginning to think you would never come round."

He slowly craned his head toward the voice, hoping that his ears and his memory were deceiving him.

"I thought it best not to move you under the circumstances. I didn't mean to frighten you."

Bernard sat up and stared at the figure beside him. He blinked a few times, but no, Lydia Hightower was still there, kneeling by his side, concern and affection written on her very lively face. Yet he was in no way ready to accept it.

"No, no, no, no! NO."

He leapt to his feet and stepped as far away from her as the confines of the room allowed.

"Bernard, please!"

As the apparition got to its feet, he began to pace about in small circles.

"No. No. NO."

"Please, you must calm down."

"Calm down? CALM DOWN?! You're _dead."_

"Bernard, I'm so sorry."

He looked her over for the few seconds his troubled mind would allow. She was wearing a heather grey tunic in thick cotton over black wool leggings and leather boots. Her fair hair was held back in a complex braid, but a few strands fell loose on the sides of her face. She had removed her scarlet cloak and draped it over his bed. Her face was etched in concern and regret for how badly she had disturbed him, and that expression was the only thing familiar about the image.

"You – you died," he said, forcing himself to look upon her. "You and he were fighting on the roof of your house."

"Yes," she confirmed.

"And he threw you off the roof."

"Yes, he did."

"And you're body was broken, I saw it."

"Yes, you did."

"And then you died. Didn't you?"

"I'm so sorry."

"No, no. No, no, no, no, no. You're a ghost, or...a hallucination. That's what you are. Santa was right, I'm overworked. Maybe I'm coming down with something."

"Getting sick?" asked the apparition as she wandered over to his bed and sat down.

"Yeah - no! Don't talk to the hallucination."

She bounced lightly atop the mattress as she regarded him with a soft smile on her face.

"But I thought elves don't get sick? You told me that, remember? When we first met. Right here in this room. Do you remember? I had your clothes on, and my arm was in a sling, and you wouldn't let me look out the window?"

She stopped bouncing and stared at him from the bed.

"You had so many secrets."

Bernard turned and glared at her.

"They should've stayed secrets."

"How can you say that?"

He turned away again with a scoff, unwilling or unable to look at her any longer.

"I let you get involved, and it got you killed. And now you're haunting me, I guess. A bit late for that, isn't it?"

"It's a bit late for you to still be feeling guilty."

The mattress creaked behind him, and he felt her approach. He felt her presence at his back and her hand upon his shoulder. He turned around.

"I am not a ghost. And what happened all those years ago was not your fault."

Lydia put her hand to his face. It felt solid and warm against his skin. He willed himself not to lean into it and wish ardently that this was not just a cruel dream.

"Bernard, I'm real. I swear it."

"This is impossible."

The door to his closet burst open. Quinton tumbled in, still hanging onto the door handle, his arms tangled in the sleeves of Bernard's shirts. His face was flushed, and he breathed heavily as though he had taken the journey between his lab and Bernard's room at a run.

"Can't you knock?"

Quinton ignored him. Instead he looked straight passed Bernard's to where the specter of Lydia Hightower stood and the color drained from his face.

"Bless my soul."

"You can see her too?"

"Of course I can see her."

Quinton's face slowly expanded into a wide grin. He stepped toward Lydia and pulled her into a warm hug.

"I knew. As soon as Bernard told me your body had disappeared, I knew one day you would return."

Quinton pulled away and smiled brightly as he looked upon her face.

"Welcome home."

Lydia cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

"The Pole is your home, my dear, and has been since you came to us," Quinton insisted. Lydia's face relaxed into a smile, and Quinton embraced her again with a laugh.

"Quinton, what are you doing here?" demanded Bernard.

"I heard you were unwell."

"And you decided to check up on me? How sweet."

"I heard you were hallucinating," said Quinton. "Rumors are spreading like wildfire. I only came up to see for myself that you hadn't shot your bolt before your second comes bursting in to measure for new curtains."

"Well you can tell the Number Two Elf that if I lose my mind, this room is to be converted into my padded cell."

"Duly noted."

"Anyway, apparently I was not hallucinating. Apparently I am being visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"I am not a ghost," insisted Lydia with an annoyed frown. She turned to Quinton as her face melted back into concern. "He did faint though."

Quinton looked at Bernard aghast.

"You fainted?"

"Wouldn't you?" said Bernard.

"Well obviously, he wouldn't," said Lydia airily.

"See, this is why I can't believe you. You were never this..." Bernard grasped for a word, but it slipped away from him as easily as his patience.

"Cheeky?" Lydia supplied.

"I'd be cheeky too if Death came knocking and I slammed the door in his face," said Quinton. "Besides, she's always been this way. You've just forgotten. Maybe you're getting old."

"Stop it! Just stop it!" shouted Bernard.

He was fed up with their concern, and he was fed up with their banter. He glared at Quinton's stricken face.

"I haven't forgotten a thing," he growled. "I remember her laugh. I remember her hair."

His eyes drifted to Lydia at last as he continued. "I remember your eyes, your smile. I remember the way your eyebrows come together when you're mad at me. I remember that weird accent you have from growing up all over. I remember the smell of your blood on the ground and how cold your fingers were. I remember the sound of the last breath you ever took. I remember you died. Even if you survived somehow, I remember how that felt so don't stand there in front of me and pretend it's nothing."

He looked away, looked at anything but his two friends staring at him with those looks of abashed sympathy.

"And I'm not getting old," he muttered.

Lydia smiled, and at last, Bernard saw her.

"So you've accepted it? I'm here."

Bernard did not smile back. He looked her dead in the eyes. The pain she saw there chased the smile from her face, but she held his gaze.

"I want an explanation."

"You'll have it."

"How did you survive? Where did you go? Where have you been all these years? Why have you come back now? _What happened to you?!_ "

"I will answer all your questions and more besides. But I haven't much time."

Bernard's brow furrowed. He looked at Quinton, who merely shrugged quizzically. They understood that this was a polite request that they not interrupt her, but neither of them could understand what rush there could be. Nevertheless, the three sat down, and Lydia began to tell her story.

* * *

A/N: I want to thank everyone who reviewed. It means a lot to me.

I feel obligated to mention the next chapter will be fairly long, unless I decide to split it. It may also take a while longer to come out for that reason. I'll try to get it done as quick as I can.

Chapter Title: "Good King Wenceslas"


	4. With One Star Awake

_Finally._ I'm so sorry this chapter took so long. I know I normally at least have a new chapter out around Christmas, and last year I didn't. I had grad school applications I was trying finish up (which sadly didn't lead to anything - but don't worry, I'm not giving up on going) which kept me really busy until January. I planned to throw myself into finishing this chapter when I was done, but almost immediately after that, I was in a car wreck. A drunk driver ran a red light and totaled my car and put me in the hospital. I was okay, just in a lot of pain. Then a week later I got sick. So basically, I spent the first part of this year on a bunch of different medications, which is not really conducive to decent writing. Also, as you may have noticed, this chapter is super, super long. BUT I wanted to get this part of the story done, so we can get on with the plot.

I do want to thank everyone who sent messages asking about this story, both for your interest and for being super polite and nice about the delay. I really appreciate it. Also sorry again it's so long. I hope you like it.

* * *

 **Chapter 3: With One Star Awake**

She awoke with no pain and no sensation save that of the cold light of the stars now embedded on her soul. Then the pins and needles came, as though her soul had only recently settled back into her body and was beginning to reorient itself with corporeal existence. Warm air pushed itself in and out of her lungs. She smelled burning wood, wet grass, and smoke. She heard harmonious sounds from far away and chattering in a language she did not know. A fire crackled nearby. She opened her eyes.

Leaves fluttered above her in a silver and purple mural, broken by shards of moonlight. She lay on a bed crafted right into a gray-limbed tree and covered in soft linen and down. A tall thin woman stood nearby, clothed in white samite and silver-specked linen. Her hair was the color of quicksilver and flowed down her shoulders. Her eyes were deep purple gems in her unlined face. Tiny pinpricks of light shone in each pupil, and her skin seemed to glow. Her ears were pointed.

"Where am I?"

"You are in Elbereth. Night has fallen, but you will live to see another day."

The name meant nothing to her.

"Who are you?"

"I am Lady Varda. This is my realm."

Every answer only gave her more questions.

"What happened to me?"

"Do you not remember?" asked Lady Varda placidly.

"I remember falling. And pain. Terrible pain and a bright light. Then nothing. I don't – I don't even-"

She shut her eyes against the hulking void in her memory. She opened them again and saw the unmoved face of Lady Varda.

"Who am I?"

Lady Varda smiled at her kindly and laid a hand on her face.

"You will remember. When your heart finds its home, you will remember."

"Please tell me what happened to me."

"An evil man tried to murder you. He nearly succeeded. In a way, he did. But I have restored you."

She trembled. A tear fell from her face.

"I don't even know my own name."

"Then we shall have to provide you with a new one," said Lady Varda airily.

"I wouldn't even begin to know what to call myself."

"May I propose one for you?"

"Please."

"Minariel."

She repeated the name twice, rolling it over her tongue and tasting it in her mind.

"What does it mean?"

Lady Varda smiled enigmatically.

"It means 'Maiden of the Tower'. I think you will find it suits you rather well."

Her brow furrowed as she pondered the meaning of that.

"Where is this place? I don't know it, and I am confident that I never have."

"It is far away from the place of your birth," Lady Varda admitted.

"How did I come to be here?"

"I had you carried to this place. Your body was broken. Now it is mended. You are no longer as you once were. It may take some time for you to grow accustomed to this form."

This pronouncement was strange to her, for she felt no different. Then again, she could recall little of any experience prior to waking beneath the purple-dappled forest, so she had little frame of reference for the changes of which Lady Varda spoke. She held up her hands and looked at them. She turned them over and examined the palms. The skin was quite fair, and the moonlight painted them nearly silver. A strand of hair fell in her face. She held it between her fingers and gazed at the straight chestnut wisp, somehow secure in the knowledge that it had always been so. She touched the rest of her hair tentatively.

"My eyes are grey, are they not?" she said slowly.

The Lady smiled at her. She continued to slowly run her fingers through her hair with growing familiarity. Then she realized something did feel, not wrong, but out of place. Her hair, she realized, was normally drawn up when she was dressed. She instinctively began to pull it back, running her fingers through the hair at her temples, when she felt them.

Her ears were quite pointed.

* * *

Near a fortnight passed before Lady Varda permitted her to rise and walk further than her room. Varda's people left out clothing for her to wear, a white tunic in a light woven material, grey leather breeches, and black leather boots and a wide matching belt. She donned the clothes slowly. She still felt unaccustomed to her body, as though her mind was unsure it belonged to her. The fingers and toes, shoulders and thighs, torso and skin all held a distant familiarity to them like looking upon a far removed relative. In the looking glass, her face knew itself, though she couldn't say how. The clothes were foreign, yet comfortable, and fit as though she were measured for them. She took a breath and walked from the room.

She emerged into a great courtyard. The sun shone through gaps in the canopy like darts. Trees over one hundred feet tall twisted and turned toward the sky, their grey bark as smooth as leather. Elves milled about as they went about their morning. Some carried large tomes in their arms on their way to study in seclusion, a trio stood in one corner playing instruments, some carried urns of water and trays of food. As she walked through the courtyard, many of them turned to look upon her. Those that paid her any attention seemed perplexed by her presence, though not hostile. Nevertheless, she felt exposed and very obviously out of place.

"Minariel," said the voice of Lady Varda. "This way."

The Lady led her into a great hall, where the trees had wrapped themselves around each other so tightly, that they formed a natural roof. Beneath this canopy, many long tables sat with benches to form a great communal dining hall. Lady Varda led Minariel to the end of the hall and onto a raised platform in front of the tables. As they stood before the elves congregated for the morning meal, a hush fell upon the crowd.

"Thank you for your attention," announced Lady Varda. "It pleases me to introduce to you the newest member of our company. Her name is Minariel. Please treat her with all the courtesy and respect you have bestowed upon me. Thank you."

A murmur of confusion swept through the crowd which did nothing to ease Minariel's discomfort. She still felt out of place and was now more confused than ever at how she came to be at this place. Yet the elves seemed to obey Lady Varda's orders without question. No one objected or even raised an eyebrow as she sat amongst them to eat.

Food in Elbereth, especially for the morning, was light fare, mostly consisting of bread, cold meat, and fruit collected from throughout the woodland. After the meal, one of Lady Varda's attendants brought her back to the courtyard and instructed her to remain there until the Lady arrived. She stood in the court watching the leaves float from the trees and flutter to the ground. Several minutes passed before Lady Varda reentered the courtyard, and Minariel heard her arrival before she appeared. She seemed to be in a rather one-sided argument with a male elf, who spoke insistently as they made their way toward the court.

"But my Lady, it is a story, a myth. A fantasy we tell children so that their dreams are not filled with the sight of their own terrible deaths."

"Is that all it is?"

"There is no proof of such a thing!"

"Gilrohir, we have had this conversation already. I know you do not agree, but rest assured, I do not make these decisions precipitously. I will remind you that I played a far more prominent role in the event than you did."

He had no answer to that, because on entering the courtyard, he immediately realized their argument had an audience. Seeing Minariel watching them, he stood at attention with his hands clasped behind him. He was tall and slender and coated in light armor. Straight blonde hair felt beneath his shoulders, and dark blue eyes gazed out of his coldly perfect face. In them, Minariel saw shadows of ancient wisdom and the cruel truth learned from millennia of experience.

"Minariel, this is Gilrohir. He is one of my finest warriors. He and a few others are going to teach you our ways. I want him to train you."

"Train me for what?"

"From Gilrohir you will learn combat training. The others will teach you the rest."

"Combat? I don't understand, my Lady."

"All will be revealed in due time. You have my word. Gilrohir, you do not object to your assignment, I hope?"

"I am bound to your orders, my Lady."

"Then all is well."

"But my Lady, why?"

"You are a soldier. Your job is to do as you are commanded. Train the girl. Help her learn the ways of our people. Make her one of us."

"But my Lady-"

"She must be protected in the coming days. Now do as you are instructed."

Gilrohir looked confused and like he very badly wanted to be annoyed. Instead, he set his mouth in a firm line as he clenched his jaw.

"Yes, my Lady."

"You will not be alone in your task," said Varda with a placating smile. "Your companions have already been given their instructions and await you outside."

Knowing he had just been dismissed, Gilrohir gave Lady Varda a stiff bow. She smile placidly at Minariel one last time and drifted away. Gilrohir looked upon his new student with his piercing gaze. He walked around her in a circle as though sizing her up. Standing behind her, her gripped her arms tightly, taking inventory of the musculature of her upper arms and shoulders and assessing what he had to work with. He did not seem impressed with what he found, nor did he seem displeased. He returned to stand at attention in front of her and stared at her up and down for several seconds.

"Come," he said and turned on his heel and marched away without looking back.

He led her out of the courtyard to an outdoor range. Rows of targets stood at intervals of ten, twenty, and thirty yards away from a rope line embedded in the ground by wooden stakes. Two people awaited them when they arrived. One leaned leisurely against a tree, while the other stood gazing at the targets, hands clasped loosely behind his back. At the sound of their arrival, both moved to stand at attention. Gilrohir moved forward to stand between them.

The person standing on Gilrohir's right side was barely an inch shorter than him but nearly twice as wide. The leather pauldrons fitted a set of very broad shoulders. Wild black hair hung in a braid to the elbows and curled in a frame around a wide, squarish face with high cheekbones. Wispy black hairs formed a short beard on the chin that was arranged in a short braid set with beads. Hands thickly corded with muscle clutched the handle of a hefty pick-axe, and a roguish smile stretched across her face.

"Orëna Copperfury."

She introduced herself in a deep, melodious voice, and indeed unlike the other elves, whose eyes ranged from grey to green to blue to deep violet, Orëna's eyes were a bright, fiery copper. Orëna's appearance contrasted so starkly with the other elves that Minariel could not help staring. Orëna quirked an eyebrow.

"Dwarf."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You were wondering why a person with such a magnificent facial arrangement as mine is mingling with these hairless cretins."

Beside her Gilrohir closed his eyes in a look of impatient annoyance that clearly said he was tempted to lose his temper if he did not think it would set a bad example for his new protégé. Or perhaps he was afraid Orëna would be simply amused by such an outburst. In any case, Orëna paid him no mind and continued.

"My mother was a dwarf. Me old dad's an elf. I'm gonna help Gil here teach you to look after yourself and see if I can't teach you some other things."

Orëna leaned forward and whispered in her ear, though loudly enough that without a doubt, Gilrohir heard her.

"See, I'm a healer, and I'm a smite bit better with magics than he is."

At that, Gilrohir stepped forward and put his hand on Orëna's massive shoulder.

"Yes, thank you, Orëna."

Atop her pauldrons, his hand looked small and gracile, even delicate. Nevertheless, she backed off with a shrug.

The person to Gilrohir's left stepped forward. He was clearly a full-blooded elf. He had high cheekbones and umber colored hair. He was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, but beneath the linen, Minariel could see he was leanly muscular. His clear green eyes held a pleasant smile.

"I am Elrodan. History and literature are my areas of expertise. I shall teach you our language and our writing, and perhaps a little magic of my own. Well met, Minariel."

Elrodan gave a short bow, and Minariel felt herself more at ease than she had been solely in the company of the stern Gilrohir.

"Now that our introductions are complete," said the soldier, "come, Minariel. We must begin."

Gilrohir handed her a bow and a quiver full of arrows.

"I don't suppose you will have ever used one of these?"

Minariel held the bow in her hand. The wood was a light ash color and almost weightless. The string pulled tight between the limbs. She plucked an arrow from the quiver. The arrow-point was made of a very sharp, pearly crystalline stone, and white feathers twisted around the shaft to form the fletching, save for the cock feather, which was black. She knocked the arrow and drew it back. The draw weight was very heavy, but she drew the string back to her brow. In the space of seconds, she anchored her stance, looked down the shaft of the arrow toward her target and released. Without dropping the bow, she watched as the arrow flew through the air and struck in the innermost circle.

A raised eyebrow was the only reaction Gilrohir gave.

"Again," he said.

She repeated the steps and the next arrow landed an inch away from its predecessor. Orëna and Elrodan shared an incredulous look.

"Where did you learn to do that?" demanded Gilrohir.

"I haven't the slightest idea," said Minariel, just as mystified as they were.

Archery turned out not to be her only mysterious talent. She immediately took a shine to the horses and rode competently, at least until Gilrohir put a sword in her hand and demanded she begin lopping sacks of sand off the shoulders of hay bale targets at full gallop. Despite her initial prowess, Minariel's training was anything but smooth. If anything, Gilrohir interpreted her unexpected talents as an invitation to raise his expectations of her to unreachable heights.

"You are distracted!" he shouted one day after three rounds of arrows fired from atop her horse failed to meet his standards.

"I am tired," she said limply.

"Your enemies will not wait for you to be wakeful!"

"What enemies?" asked Minariel in consternation. He had no answer all the other times she asked, and she did not expect an answer now.

"Five minutes," he barked at her a she climbed off her horse and threw herself to the ground. She wiped her brow with her sleeve then rolled both of them to her elbows.

"You not sleeping?"

Orëna landed beside her with a thud.

"I had dreams. Or rather, one dream. Again and again."

"Go on."

"I dreamt of a boy, a dark haired boy with old eyes. He's frightened. I want to help him, but as soon as I reach for him, I fall back into a dark pit. Who is he? Why can I not remember?"

"He an elf?"

"I don't know."

"Dwarf?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Ah. No majestic beard then?"

Minariel gave a tired laugh.

"No. He's young. Barely out of youth. He has dark eyes, dark curls. He's very sad. I want to touch him, to be near him, but I can never reach him."

Orëna looked at her with an unfathomable expression. She seemed about to say something.

"Minariel! At the ready!"

Orëna shook her head.

"Back to it then. Best of luck."

* * *

Minariel soon grew accustomed to her new home. At night, silver fire danced in glass orbs hung from low hanging branches in the trees. The elves all seemed to hum the same low melodies that wafted through the air like incense. They too began to gradually accept the strange newcomer into their fold, treating her cordially and often greeting her by her new given name. She found companionship in Orëna and Elrodan, especially the former, who seemed determined to take her under her wing and rescue her from the rigidity of Gilrohir's teachings.

"I know what it's like, being half one thing and half another, not knowing where you belong," was what Orëna had said one day just before their evening meal, sharpening the blade of an axe as Minariel dropped exhausted into her seat.

Yet it was not only the feeling of displacement that troubled her. Minariel began to notice a sense of comradery that bound her three tutors to one another. Orëna's ribbing of Gilrohir seemed to serve not to humiliate him, but rather to keep him grounded, and he took it in stride as such, never growing angry in the face of her teasing. Elrodan would gladly share a laugh with her regarding the stern warrior, but neither the soft touches between Elrodan and Gilrohir nor the clasped hands they kept under the table during meals were often lost on their young protégé. Something about the ease and subtly of their companionship kindled an emotion in Minariel's mind, but she could recall no memory or face to attach to it.

Despite the intense rigors Gilrohir foisted upon his student, magic proved to be a far more difficult skill to learn. A year passed before Minariel could master even the simplest of incantations. Nevertheless, Orëna was a far more patient teacher. She explained that elves derived their magic from different places, that the elves that once lived by the mountains took their magic from the earth, whereas the elves of Elbereth took their magic from the stars. Minariel had been attempting to make a glass orb glow for over an hour without success, and her frustration was palpable.

"Elven magic is not so simple as waving a wand and reciting a word or two. It is ancient and complex. You are handling things fine. Besides, I know how Gilrohir is driving you to distraction with your training. Do not be too hard on yourself. How is that going anyhow?"

"Every time I think I've done something right, I'm wrong."

"That's Gilrohir for you. I've seen you at work. You're doing fine. What about the dreams?"

"The same. Is it normal to only dream of one thing? Orëna, I dream of him, almost every single night, and I haven't the faintest idea who he is."

"I think you will know when it is time for you to know."

"You sound like Lady Varda. What's worse is when I don't have them. When I do, I wake up exhausted, but when I don't, I wake up, and I'm disappointed. I want the dreams. I don't want them to stop. Is that terrible?"

"No. You told me you remember nothing of your time before you came to us. If your mind is so fixated on him, there's probably a reason. Come. I want you to try again. This time, think of this young man as you feel the light flow through you."

"You want me to focus on him?"

"It's worth a try. After all, he is the boy of your dreams, in't he?"

It was an awful joke, and they both knew it. However it turned out to be an excellent idea. Minariel closed her eyes, and let the image come forth in her mind. She imagined his face clearly, but when she tried to remember his name or the sound of his voice, there was nothing. He was afraid, calling for her, but she heard nothing. She frowned. She knew without opening her eyes that the globe remained unlit. She kept them closed and tried again. There was a breath of snow on her face and a hand in hers. Far away in her mind, she felt them as clear as the present. She opened her eyes to see the bright light of the orb illuminating Orëna's smiling face.

"See?" said her teacher with a hint of mischief. "You're not completely hopeless."

For the first time since she had awoken in Elbereth, Minariel agreed.

* * *

Though her memory of her time before Elbereth still evaded her, she felt certain her hearing was far sharper than it ought to be. She often found herself eavesdropping on conversations without meaning to.

"You are too hard on the girl. You were never so strict when you trained me."

"I could be, if you like."

"Later, perhaps," replied Elrodan with a hint of cheek.

"Time is short, Elrodan. She must be ready."

"Short for what, exactly?"

"Just see that she learns to string together a proper sentence."

Her fluency in the Elven language did indeed improve until she no longer even dreamed in her parent tongue. She read elven poetry, epic tales, and magic texts with ease, and even her penmanship earned her praise from Elrodan. Her skill with her weapons also improved remarkably, yet Gilrohir was never satisfied. Years passed and turned into decades. Those decades turned into a century, and time marched onwards and forwards for a few more decades still. Minariel began to feel tension condense in the air and creep through the forests like fog. One day, she happened upon Gilrohir and Lady Varda standing alone in the middle of a heated argument.

"The time has come, Gilrohir."

"She is not ready, my Lady!"

"You have had a century and a half, nearly one hundred times the lifetime that was allotted to her before."

"A proper Elven warrior would be in training for centuries before she took to the battlefield."

"And you have pushed none of your trainees half so hard as you have pushed her. And I am not sending you to war."

"No, my Lady, you are merely sending us to track down and destroy our greatest enemy."

"A task secondary to your main mission, which is to find the Children of Hollin, and for that we will need the girl."

"How shall I find them, my Lady? Forgive me. I did not mean to eavesdrop."

"Yet you did it anyway," growled Gilrohir.

Varda silenced him with a look.

"Come with me, Minariel."

Varda brought her into a room she had never seen before. The room was circular with a vaulted ceiling, and the floor and walls were covered in shining translucent tile. In the center of the room stood a pedestal atop which was a massive orb made of glass. Inside it, settled at the bottom, was a pile of fine, black silt.

"Come closer, Minariel. There is something I must show you."

She stepped up to the pedestal.

"What do you know of our history?" asked Varda.

"Very little, I'm afraid. Elrodan and I have only covered the very ancient histories. We haven't reached the less distant past."

"It's all right, Minariel. But I have much to teach you today."

Varda placed her hands on either side of the orb and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply as though focusing strongly on one thought, one image. Then she said dreamily,

"Watch the orb."

Inside the glass sphere, the dust rose up and swirled about. Images began to take shape in the dust. First, strong forms became structures, then wisps became trees, until the material within the globe took the form of a city made of stone. It lay in a valley with mountains surrounding it in almost a complete circle. On the outskirts was a shimmering lake, and beyond that, a flat meadow and a vast forest. Looking close, she say tiny shapes moving, people and animals, bustling about in the city. Then suddenly, wisps of dust rose in columns from the city as it burst into flame. Giant humanoid shapes pounded through the burning wreckage, slamming their fists into fleeing people and sending them flying into walls. Minariel felt she could almost hear the screams.

The image swirled away and was replaced by a single man standing in the ruins. He was in armor with a circlet atop his long dark hair. Rage and sorrow waged war upon his face.

"Who is he?"

"He is King Bayard, Lord of Hollin. He ruled over that great city until its destruction."

"Destroyed by whom? The enemy that you spoke of?"

A glare from Gilrohir reminded her that that conversation had not been meant for her ears.

"Yes. Look."

Minariel turned her eyes back to the orb. Some of the dust swirled, and another shape took form. A humanoid shape, another elf perhaps, stood in the dust. It was exceptionally tall in proportion to King Bayard and quite thin. Yet it had no distinct features other than a tall pointed crown atop what must have been its head. The dust of the orb swirled erratically around bright light without ever taking shape.

"I do not understand."

"The Enemy. Since he began his path of carnage, none who ever crossed his path have lived to describe him. Bayard was the first to stand against him and the first to defy his reign of terror. Had Elbereth stood beside him, perhaps…."

Lady Varda trailed off mournfully. Gilrohir looked to Minariel, his eyes dark with his hatred.

"He is called the Erlking," spat the soldier.

Strangely, the name felt familiar to Minariel, though she could no more place it than reach out and touch the figures inside the orb. Lady Varda recovered her poise and continued.

"Bayard's forces held the city as best they could but to no avail. Hollin was completely decimated and its inhabitants slaughtered. Afterwards, the elves, dwarves, and goblins finally set aside their differences to drive the Erlking away. He was not destroyed however. He managed to escape and disappeared."

Minariel looked away from the orb. Lady Varda's eyes looked far away, her mind carried to the past. Gilrohir was a statue, his features stony and emotionless.

"Where could he have gone?" she asked, but silence was the only answer she received.

"We scoured the wreckage of Hollin," said the Lady. "We recovered and buried the slain but amongst them were no children."

Minariel blinked at that.

"Where did they go?"

Gilrohir's gaze pierced hers.

"That is the very question we hope you can answer. Or at least, Lady Varda believes you can. You see, for centuries rumors have persisted that the children were evacuated before the Erlking's attack and secreted somewhere beyond his or Lady Varda's sight. If this is true, they have never been found."

She shook her head. "How could I possibly know where they are?"

Lady Varda tore herself away from her memories and came reluctantly back to the present.

"Bayard warned us of the Erlking's lust for power," she insisted. "He and Queen Miriel realized before any of us the threat he posed. With the alliances they made, it is possible they evacuate sent the children into hiding before Hollin was destroyed."

"I don't understand, my Lady," said Minariel. "If you have been unable to find them for centuries, how will I?"

"You know. I believe that as much as I ever believed anything. Deep inside you with all your memories of your past life, that is where the answer lies."

"But I do not know the way."

"You will."

Varda turned to Gilrohir, who was at once at attention. "Go to Hollin. I am confident you will find your way from there."

"I have already alerted my best warriors and told them to assemble at daybreak. We shall leave at dawn, my Lady," said Gilrohir with a bow. He and Lady Varda then departed, leaving Minariel alone and confused.

* * *

Sleep evaded Minariel that night. Not even her dreams plagued her, since she did not rest deeply enough to have them. So it was with tired eyes and a back sore from tossing and turning that she awoke before the sun rose the day of their departure. Just before dawn, two dozen elves, including Elrodan and Orëna assembled on the outskirts of the woods of Elbereth. A small gathering of elves congregated at the border to see them off and wish them well on their journey. Lady Varda stood amongst them. She approached Minariel, who sat nervously astride her horse. The Lady reached a hand toward her, and Minariel clasped it in hers.

"Do not be afraid. You are ready, and you will know the way. I have faith in you."

Lady Varda released her hand and approached Gilrohir. The words spoken between them went unheard by the others, but by the quick glances Gilrohir shot Minariel's way, she could guess at their subject. A moment later, Lady Varda stepped away from Gilrohir and addressed their entire group.

"Best of luck to you all. May your journey be peaceful, your arrival safe, and your mission a success. Be well, my friends."

She raised a hand to them in a final farewell, and the farewell party followed suit. Gilrohir commanded his horse forward with a single spoken word. The mounted elves followed, and they left Elbereth behind as the sun peeked out over the horizon.

The road to Hollin was long but uneventful. For a week they held a steady pace out of the forest and onto a vast plain. Once on level ground, they kept their horses at a canter and stopped only once in the middle of the day to let the animals rest in the high sun. Soon, mountains began to project out of the horizon into the sky. They kept their pace, and a few days later, they caught sight of large stone structures jutting out of the ground.

Their party fell silent as they approached the ruins of Hollin. Many of the elves were in their adolescence when the city fell under attack. Most of them had never seen the city, either in its glory days or after its demise. As they crossed the meadow into Hollin, they felt as though they had walked into a tomb.

In the flesh, the sight of the city naturally bore far more detail than the vision Minariel saw of it within the orb, but it was no more colorful than it had been in the black dust. Many of the archways and flooring that remained were as charred black as when they burned all the centuries before. In some areas, very little remained of the architecture. Only masonry columns still stood, jutting out of the earth like a giant skeleton, blackened by fire. Other areas appeared mostly untouched, ravaged only by the slow and constant onslaught of time and neglect. Inches of dust had settled on furniture, books, statues, and even musical instruments that had been left behind in the haste of the occupants' departure. The elves of Hollin had either fled without their belongings or died before they could plan their escape.

The travelers were solemn and quiet as they explored the wreckage. Unwilling to make physical contact with items which held such despair in their past, they touched nothing. They kept their eyes downcast, some filled with unshed tears, as they walked amongst the ruined city.

"Anything?" demanded Gilrohir. Minariel shook her head.

"No. Nothing looks familiar, except for what I saw in the orb. I don't know what I'm meant to be looking for."

Gilrohir sighed.

"Everyone spread out," he commanded to all the elves. "Be on the lookout for anything out of place."

The elves complied and took off in different directions. Orëna dropped her hand on Minariel's shoulder.

"Come on, Minariel. You're with me. You don't object to that, do you Gilrohir?"

Gilrohir frowned at Orëna, clearly annoyed at her presumption, but he did not protest as Orëna slung an arm around Minariel and led her away from the group and toward the rocky terrain beyond the ruins.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"All right, I suppose," said Minariel. "I still don't know what I'm meant to find here."

"Maybe it'll come to you."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Then we all go home and have wasted a few days. And what are a few days to this lot?"

"Gilrohir will have wasted all that time training me. I'd say he would a bit put out."

"Eh, a century and a half is nothing to that one. He'll get over it."

Minariel looked at the ground unconvinced. Orëna elbowed her in the side.

"Never mind that. Let's look around. See if we can't stir up a memory."

Once again, Orëna clapped a massive hand on Minariel's shoulder and led her toward the rocks. They had not been walking long when Orëna began to wade through memory and the history of her people.

"It wasn't just Hollin, you know. There was once a great dwarf kingdom beneath this mountain. My mother was born there. King Bayard had an affinity for the dwarves. His friend and advisor came from those hills. Now the dwarven kingdom has dispersed and scattered, their home as ruined as this city."  
With that proclamation, Orëna spat onto the ground in disgust and hatred for the Erlking's carnage.

The pair walked along the mountainside for a few minutes. Now and then, Orëna would pick up a stone and show it to Minariel, explaining its name and its use in her mother's culture. She was describing the efficacy of a grey and brown banded rock in the use of kitchen utensils to Minariel, when she gasped. The stone fell from her hand, and she darted forward passed Minariel. As she ran toward the rocky terrain, she cupped her broad hands around and her mouth and shouted.

"Gilrohir! Over here! Come quick!"

All the elves heard her cry and joined them where she stood examining a gap in the rocks. It was over eight feet wide and twelve feet tall and covered completely in translucent grey and pink crystal. The elves stopped before the gap, and several gasped at the sight of it. Gilrohir, on the other hand, glared at it, staring it down as though it had just said some deeply insulting about one of his relatives.

"What is it?" asked Minariel.

"The barrier between the worlds," said Elrodan breathlessly.

Orëna approached the barrier and laid her palm across it.

"This was erected by my mother's people thousands of years ago to close off communication between our world and theirs."

"Whose?" asked Minariel.

"Humans."

At that single word, several images flashed inside Minariel's mind. A man, a woman, and two small girls seated around a large table, all smiling and happy, then the sound of their screams cutting through the roars of a terrible fire. An older man with a warm smile and sad eyes. A drunkard grinning cruelly through a flurry of snow and blood. She felt dizzy.

"There are only a few gateways like this," said Elrodan. "I am not sure where the others are."

Orëna examined the wall closely. "It's weaker than it ought to be. As though it were torn down then hastily repaired, with magic probably."

"Can you open it?" asked Gilrohir.

Orëna's lip quirked up in a half-smile. She hefted her hammer in both hands. She swung hard at the glassy barrier, and a mighty clang sounded throughout the woods as the crystal vibrated at the impact but remained intact. Several elves clapped their hands over their ears. Gilrohir glared, but Orëna's half-smile turned to a full-on grin as she continued cheerfully hammering against the crystal wall. Then, at last, they heard several cracks. Orëna pounded upon the barrier a few more times, when finally, it shattered into pieces on the ground.

Beyond the ruined wall stood a long tunnel, lined in the same crystal as the barrier. It wound deep into the mountain until the corridor was bathed in shadow. The elves looked at each other uneasily. Long lived as they were, this barrier which Orëna had torn down so easily predated all of them. None of them even knew precisely the reason it had been erected in the first place, not even Elrodan. Yet to cross it now seemed an act of sacrilege.

Gilrohir was the first to stir. He dismounted and instructed the others to do the same. One by one, they led their horses into the tunnel. Orëna conjured a light in her hands to illuminate their path, but unbidden by her, it shot from her hand and into a sconce on the wall beside her. Then all at once, dozens of identical sconces evenly spaced along the wall burst into luminescence after it.

They walked along in silence for hours. Each elf felt they could hear the soft thudding of every heart in their company. No member of their kind had set foot on this path for millennia. Or had they? All of them, save Minariel, had heard whispers of the legendary Children of Hollin for centuries. Could they have disappeared along this road? What fate awaited them in the human world? They shared not a murmur of a question or a thought as they walked along the corridor.

At last they saw faint light ahead of them and the cold air of a breeze outside. Gilrohir called them to a halt some twenty feet away from the entrance. A similar barrier to the one Orëna had destroyed lay in shards at the opening.

"Someone busted it open and left it," said Orëna as she examined the pieces. "They didn't even bother to close it behind them. These pieces are old too. There aren't nearly enough left to make up the entire barrier. Whatever happened here happened centuries ago."

Gilrohir looked at the crystal shard between Orëna's fingers. For a brief moment he seemed uncertain, even unsettled. He turned to look at Minariel. His expression was strange, as though after over a hundred and fifty years, he had just seen her for the first time. Yet Minariel had no idea what to make of anything she had seen and no explanation for the destruction of the barriers. Gilrohir shook his head, and at last, he guided the elves out of the mouth of the tunnel and into the open.

They had emerged into the world of humans. Night had fallen. A crescent moon hung high on blue velvet. Pinpricks of light dotted the sky in patterns strange to the elves.

"I know these stars," said Minariel. The elves turned and looked at her. For the first time in over a century, she had spoken in the language of her ancestors.

"Minariel?"

"The sailors used the stars to navigate on the open ocean," she continued.

The patterns made by the stars began to take shape as she recognized them. She had stopped walking in order to take in the forms of a mother bear and her cub as they leapt across the sky.

"My uncle told me that."

"Minariel, we must move on," urged Gilrohir.

"No," she said. She stared at the stars then pointed to one in particular.

"That one. That is Polaris, the North Star. We must go north. As far north as possible."

With a confidence none of the elves knew she possessed, she took off at a canter without awaiting further orders. The remaining elves stayed where they were. None of them even knew where north might be in this strange world, let alone how their comrade knew how to find it or even where she thought she was going. Even Gilrohir looked uncertain. Reticent as he was to lead them by the intuition of his amnesiac protégé, he knew his orders. They were to follow Minariel where she would lead them. He signaled to the two dozen elves to move ahead after her.

For hours, they followed her northward. The weather grew colder and colder. Snow fell upon the ground, though the elves had no idea what season it might be in this place. Hardy as the elven warriors were, even Orëna was eventually forced to don her cloak and huddle into it against the bitter winds. The night vexed them as well. Hours and hours passed without sight of the sun. The travelers were cold, confused, and tired, yet they could not glean any answer as to their destination or even a hint as to why the night lasted so long out of their leaders.

Then, when the elves were all but ready to mutiny, one of them gasped. Soon every last one of the elves stared into the sky. Whips of purple and green swirled across the sky like rainbow flames.

"It is beautiful," whispered Orëna.

"What is it?" asked Elrodan. "What makes it?"

Minariel shook her head.

"I don't know. I think it's called aurora," she said uncertainly. "We're almost there."

At that, the elves regained some of their old energy. The aurora hung in the sky above them, shimmering like a mirage. Beneath that spectrum, the elves found they did not mind the cold as much as before, and instead they kept their eyes upward, letting the wind breathe on their faces as they rode through the snow.

A few hours later, seemingly out of nowhere, appeared a village. It stood isolated in the arctic, yet the lights and smoke and distant sounds of activity confirmed that the settlement was very much occupied. The elves looked at each other stunned. Murmurs of shock and excitement swept through the group. Minariel stopped her horse. She sat stationary in the saddle for nearly a minute, her breath coming hard in clouds before her face. She dismounted and turned around to face the elves.

"I have to go alone."

"What?" said Gilrohir.

"You'll frighten them. They won't remember."

Even she was not certain what she meant by that. She was only certain that she had to make the next phase of the journey alone.

"I'll explain to them. I'll come back for you. I must go alone."

She began to walk forward, letting her feet carry her to a place she could neither name nor imagine in her mind. She could vaguely hear Gilrohir continue to shout her name only to be shushed by Orëna. She kept going.

A thousand smells and sounds flooded her mind. The snow smelled crisper here and mingled happily with the scents of pine and burnt sugar. Laughter hung in the air with the pattering of feet and the metallic clinking of hammers. She watched the crowds of people running about with joyous faces red with the cold and alive with youth. None of the paid her the slightest attention.

Then she saw him.

Inside the village, walking across the snow laden ground. He wore the same velvet embroidered tunic with the same beret atop his dark curls. The same dark eyes held a distant gaze as though he were lost in thought.

Notice me, she thought.

He did. He saw her, looked straight through the crowd toward her. She ducked away, heart pounding.

"Bernard…" she said quietly.

His name had no sooner passed her lips when her mind was assaulted by image after image, memory after memory, until she nearly dropped to her knees with the sensation of it. She recalled every moment and every detail. Every conversation, every glance, every touch replayed in her mind at once. She felt sick. Her head spun. Then the sensation slowly began to fade. Her mind grew calm, and she smiled. A new purpose overcame her. She had to see him, to speak with him.

How well she knew the way. Her memory guided her through the village as at last Lydia Hightower walked with steady stride toward the chambers of her old friend.

* * *

 **A/N:** A shout-out and sincere apology to Tolkien for hijacking his language and names. I plan to include the meanings of the elves names as they appear.

Gilrohir - "Star Horse"

Orëna - "Fire Heart"

Varda - "The Exalted"

Miriel - "Sparkling Jewel"

Bayard is a human name, and I have no idea where I got Elrodan. The best I can get out of my elven dictionary is "Elf horseman" which works I suppose.

Chapter Title: "She Moved Through the Faire", a traditional Irish folk song.

Thanks for reading and your patience with me! I hope you enjoyed it.


	5. What a Tale My Thoughts Could Tell

**A/N:** I feel as though, when my life began, somebody decided to put my life on the Hard Mode setting. I would like to find that person and sock them in the face.

I know you guys are probably sick of hearing my sob stories, but shortly after my last chapter posted, I lost both my job and my apartment. So landing on my feet has consumed most of my time recently. The one silver lining as far as you guys are concerned is that while I was throwing all my stuff into boxes, the only way I could de-stress was to take many, many steaming hot bubble baths. And while I was soaking, I was writing. So, who knows? That might have resulted in this chapter getting out faster. Or slower. Any way, I've got a new job, and hopefully I will have a new apartment soon.

I would very much like to have the next chapter out by Christmas. I'll be in the process of moving my stuff out of storage and into a new place, but my Christmas shopping is done, so I'm hoping I can get it done. If you guys want to see it happen, feel free to bug me and make sure I'm staying on track. In any case, please enjoy the new chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: What a Tale My Thoughts Could Tell**

Lydia finished her tale then lapsed into placid silence. Quinton seemed simultaneously intrigued at her story and satisfied by her explanation as to how she had gone from her deathbed to standing before them. They both looked to Bernard for any reaction but found his face bore no expression in the slightest. After a solid minute of stubborn silence, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"So you're an elf now?"

"Yes," said Lydia as she brushed a strand of hair behind her pointed ears. "Yes, I am."

Bernard's wry smile did not reach his eyes.

"Excuse me."

Bernard calmly traipsed over to his closet, opened the door, walked inside, and shut the door behind him. A cacophony of muffled yelling and clothing and hangers rustling violently erupted from within the closet. Quinton and Lydia could only look at each other in horror and alarm.

"Oh dear," said Lydia over the din. "He's not taking this very well, is he?"

"I'm sure he'll relax as he gets used to the idea."

A minute passed before the commotion subsided, and Bernard emerged from the closet, looking somewhat disheveled but otherwise calm.

"Thank you," he said, adjusting his beret so it sat less crookedly on his head. "Now what?"

"I must speak with your master."

"Our _master?_ You mean _Santa_?"

"I want to explain to him properly what's going on before my companions arrive."

A wide grin spread across Quinton's face.

"Wood elves! We're going to meet wood elves, Bernard."

"Wonderful. Alright, come on then."

Bernard led them out of his room and into the hall adjacent to the factory floor. Quinton suggested using the tunnels to avoid attention, but Bernard scowled at his closet door as though it had insulted him then stomped out the bedroom door.

Halfway through their journey, Quinton stop short then muttered,

"Just a moment." Then he dashed off down a hallway. He came running back a few minutes later with a bundle of papers wrapped in twine. He stuffed the bundle into the satchel that hang ubiquitously from Bernard's shoulder.

"What are you doing?" protested Bernard.

"I have to put them somewhere, and I didn't get a bag."

Bernard rolled his eyes and shuffled his companions along with an annoyed growl.

"Other elves, Bernard," said Quinton, practically bouncing beside him. "There are other types of elves, and they're here and they want to meet us. Think of what we could learn from them about magic, about them, about ourselves. You heard Lydia. There were more of us at one time. This might be the most exciting thing that has ever happened here. Why aren't you more thrilled?"

Bernard turned and stared at him stone-faced, not losing a step in his quick stride.

"I'm keeping my excitement on the inside. "

They walked abreast through the vast halls of the factory. Bernard's eyes stayed locked determinedly ahead of him. Lydia, on the other hand, craned her head this way and that and absorbed every minute detail she could with as much marvel and wonder as though she had never set foot there before. And she hadn't, had she? The Pole of her youth was a dark and twisted shadow of the magical wonderland it ought to have been. Now the place was awash with light and alive with movement and happy chatter. All around her little elves looked up from their work to gaze upon her and hid their whispers behind their hands.

"I don't suppose my return would stay quiet for long," she half-heartedly lamented. A tiny girl elf skipped up to her and handed her a lovely red poinsettia and curtseyed. Lydia smiled at her as she skipped away. Bernard glowered.

"Come on," he said and pushed through the growing crowd. They soon came to their destination. Bernard bounded up a short staircase and stood before an elaborate set of stained glass doors framed in gold. He raised his hand to knock when he realized Lydia was still standing at the base of the stairs, a look of uncertainty etched across her face.

"Well? Are we going in or not?"

"Yes, of course."

Bernard banged on the door.

"Come in!"

Bernard pushed the door in by its handle and ushered his companions into the room.

The office had changed considerably since Lydia had last seen it. The furniture had been polished and cleaned regularly, and light from the wide window gleamed off it in dazzling gold. An ornate desk sat across from the door. A woman in a burgundy stood behind it, leaning over the chair. Lydia did not recognize her. Sitting in the chair poring over several sheets of paper was a white-bearded man, clothed in red and white. Lydia felt her heart begin to pound inside her chest. The man looked up from his paperwork as they entered the room.

"Hey, Quinton, how's it going?" he began amiably, but when he laid eyes on Bernard, he threw his pen down on the desk. "Bernard when I told you to get some rest, I kind of meant more than fifteen seconds. Now am I going to have to tie you down, and-who's this?"

"Santa, this is Lydia," said Quinton.

"Lydia?" Santa lowered his voice and utterly failed to conceal his bewilderment. "Do we have a Lydia?"

It was then that Quinton realized that Lydia had not come toward the desk and was still standing only a few feet away from the door. She stared wide-eyed at the desk and the bearded man sitting at it. She had gone very pale and was stock still where she stood. Quinton put a hand on her elbow and gently pulled her forward.

"Since she arrived this morning."

The man at the desk frowned at her, taking in the sight of her, and eyeing the scarlet cloak draped across her shoulder. A look of dawning recognition spread across his face.

"The creeper in the red cloak. She exists."

"And she is a she," added the woman next to him.

Lydia blinked as though woken from a trance. She turned to Bernard and Quinton.

"Creeper?"

"You were kind of stalking me," said Bernard.

"I was trying to be discreet."

"You're right, making me think I was losing my mind is so much better."

"I said I was sorry."

" _Anyway_ ," interjected the man at the desk.

"Sorry," muttered Bernard.

"My apologies," said Lydia. "I am here on a very important errand, and it is imperative that I speak with you immediately."

That was as far as Lydia got before the door opened.

"Santa, I have those results you wanted," Curtis began as he walked into the room. He looked up from his notes and saw the other occupants of the room. "Oh hi, Quinton. Bernard. I heard you were..."

He trailed off as he finally laid eyes on Lydia. Recognition fell upon both of them at the same time. Curtis's eyes went wide, and Lydia's brow furrowed as the memories of her few interactions with Curtis came flooding back to her.

"You!" she exclaimed.

All the color drained from Curtis's face. His mouth gaped open, and at first he tried and failed to take in the slightest gulp of air. Then -

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Lydia, Bernard, and Quinton all started back at Curtis's scream as Curtis himself dove behind Santa's chair. Lydia looked quizzically at Quinton.

"I seem to be having that effect quite a bit lately."

Curtis's head popped up from behind Santa's desk. His face was still a shade of ash, but high circles of pink had developed in his plump cheeks. He pointed straight at Lydia.

"She's a _zombie!_ "

"She is _not_ a zombie," said Quinton. "Nor is she a ghost, nor is she going to devour your soul. Though she may slap you one again if you keep screaming in her face."

"To be fair, I thought she was a ghost," said Bernard.

"Well now that we've all established what she's not, why don't we try establishing who she is?" said the woman behind the desk.

"Thank you, Madam," said Lydia. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"You mean you don't recognize me?" asked Mrs. Claus confused. She gestured toward her husband. "Do you recognize him?"

"Yes," said Lydia, careful to keep her voice level. "I know who he is. But I do not know you."

"I'm Mrs. Claus. You can call me Carol if you like."

"I'm sorry," interjected the man behind the desk. "What is going on? Who is she and how did she get here?"

"Sir, my name is Lydia Hightower, and I have come to you from the forests of Elbereth on an errand of great importance.

"She's an elf, sir," said Quinton. "A wood elf. Well, she is now. She didn't use to be. She was human. But then she died, and it's a long story really."

"A wood elf? What's a wood elf?"

"I would think an elf that lies in the woods," said Carol.

"I gathered that," said her husband indignantly. "I meant, since when are there other elves than the ones we have here?"

"According to Lydia, they've always been around in another world besides this one."

Santa blinked at him.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"She's not an elf!" said Curtis. "She's a human, and the last time she was here, she caused a bunch of trouble."

"Trouble?" said Lydia.

"And I suppose humans have started having 150 year lifespans, have they?" snapped Quinton at Curtis. Having suitably chastised the younger elf, he addressed his boss.

"Sir, we can explain. You see, it all started approximately one hundred and fifty years ago, when Lydia found herself here by accident, as it were."

He looked to Lydia, hoping she would pick up the story from there, perhaps explain her own version of the events leading up to her unexpected arrival, but she did not look at him, nor did she speak at all. She was staring wide-eyed once again at the man at the desk, her grey eyes like steel. She looked like a deer staring at a wolf, waiting for the precise moment her instincts told her to spring into movement. Or perhaps, Quinton thought, the reverse, the man as the prey and her as the predator. Either way, Quinton knew he would have to fill in the gaps himself.

"She...er...hid in the sleigh – she had her reasons – one Christmas Eve night – obviously – and she was injured and unwell so we let her stay here for awhile, while she recovered. But we had to hide her, because if Santa – rather your predecessor, Sir – knew she was there, he would have been very angry. She and Bernard became good friends, and well..."

Once again, Quinton looked away, now to Bernard, hoping he would pick up the story threads, but the Head Elf had his arms crossed and stared stubbornly at the floor. Quinton found himself struggling with a desire to whack his supposed best friend upside the head for leaving him high and dry. Lydia was one thing. Clearly her return had affected her in a deep psychological way, the details of which he would attempt to glean later, but Bernard was simply being ridiculous. The long-suffering scientist took a breath and tried again.

"After she went home, they stayed in touch, and we needed some help ridding ourselves of..."

Calling the man Santa had put a bad taste in his mouth that he was reluctant to experience again, and he hadn't so much as thought of the man's given name in well over a century.

"...your rather awful predecessor, because, well, it's a long story really, but one thing led to another, and the whole nasty business came to a head on Christmas Eve. Lydia was, er, well, she died, and that awful man was disposed of, and I suppose that's when the wood elves came to fetch her and take her home with them, and Lydia's uncle took over her, and a century and a half later, here we are."

Not half bad a job, Quinton thought, considering his so-called friends left him to tell the entire story on his own. A little abridged, perhaps, but serviceable.

Santa and Mrs. Claus merely stared at him, slightly wide-eyed. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinton saw Bernard bury his face in his hand.

"I'm sorry," said Carol after a long stretch of silence. "Did you say, 'disposed of?'"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You mean killed?" asked Santa.

"Well, I...er...I suppose so, sir."

"This girl shows up and a year later, Santa's dead?"

"It wasn't like that, sir. I – I can explain - "

"She snuck in, sir!"

"She did no such thing," insisted Quinton. "Will one of you say something, for goodness sake!"

Bernard continued his attempt to turn staring at the floor into an Olympic event. Lydia opened her mouth as though to speak, but no words came out.

"Everything was fine until she showed up," insisted Curtis.

"Fine?!" said Quinton, his voice rising in both pitch and volume. "You call what that terrible man was doing fine?"

"Quinton, what are you talking about?" asked their boss.

"He was awful, sir. We had to be rid of him."

"By killing him?!"

"We didn't – I mean that wasn't our intent. We meant only to force him out."

"So you staged a coup?" asked Carol.

"She started it!" said Curtis.

"It's not as though I was some sort of agitator," said Lydia at last. "We had good cause."

"To kill Santa?"

"You murdered him," gasped Curtis. "You two always refused to tell me what happened that night, but I never imagined - "

"We did not murder him! Honestly Curtis, you cannot possibly believe that we - "

" _He_ murdered _me._ "

A hush fell across the room. Nearly every eye was on her. Lydia's heart started to knock against her sternum again.

"I don't know what happened after that," she said quietly.

Now Lydia looked to Bernard for answers, but still he remained stubbornly silent.

"Your uncle shot him," Quinton supplied to her quietly. "I seem to be making rather a hash of this story. Perhaps I have made a very Watsonian error of telling a story the wrong way round."

"Who?" asked Lydia.

Quinton realized suddenly that his boss wasn't the only one who would need to be brought up to date on certain historical events. One crisis at a time, he thought.

"Sir, allow me start over. To begin with, one of your predecessors was a very evil man. He was horrible and cruel, and his was filled with avarice and hate."

Curtis scoffed again.

"He was not that bad."

Lydia leveled her eyes at Curtis. Her normally soft-grey stare had turned to steel. Curtis took a step back.

"'Not that bad?' How could you not see? How could you not see what he was doing to him? You think he deserved it? Any of it?"

Lydia breathed hard in her fury. A sharp pain shot through her temple, and she clutched her head. She looked up as the pain subsided into a dull throb and found every eye in the room on her.

"I – I am - excuse me," she muttered. She stumbled toward the door, groped for the handle and disappeared. Bernard watched her go, his brow furrowed, but made no move to follow her.

"See?" said Curtis, after releasing the breath he had been holding. "Clearly something's wrong with her."

He put his index finger beside his head and twirled it about to say "She's crazy." Quinton's glared at him and ground his teeth.

"I can prove it, sir."

Quinton reached toward Bernard's chair and, ignoring the annoyed look the Head Elf shot him, began to rifle through the messenger bag slung over the back. He produced the bundle of papers he had previously retrieved from his lab.

"These should explain the gravity of the circumstances we faced, sir."

"Whoa this guy had terrible handwriting. Here, you were a high school principal. You should be able to decipher these."

"Wow. And they say penmanship is dying now."

Nevertheless, she squinted at the page and gave the first letter a scan.

"Who's Simon Carruthers?"

"The man in question, Madam."

"Curtis has a point, Quinton. I have a hard time believing that Santa could be evil."

"Think about how you got the job, sir."

"The last Santa fell off my roof."

"Yes, and what if he had fallen off the roof of a truly terrible person? A man with love for nothing other than his own gain and enjoyed causing others pain?"

"Oh please! Okay, maybe he wasn't the nicest Santa we ever had, but they were breaking rules constantly. Bernard kept sneaking off to hang out with his girlfriend when he was supposed to be working. One time, he disappeared for a whole month, and me and the rest of us had to pick up the slack."

"They were in hiding, you idiot!"

Curtis scoffed. "'Hiding.' They wouldn't need to be hiding if-"

"He wasn't going to ground them, Curtis! He wanted to kill them."

"Oh please."

"You can't really be this naïve. I begged you, _begged you,_ not to taker her away from me. We were both screaming at you to help us. I could forgive Theodore, because he was terrified, but you, you just don't get it. Do you know what he was going to do to her? He tried to force himself on her. In a "grown up" way. Then he murdered her. By hurling her off her own roof."

"Well that explains the 'Nam flashback," said Santa. "Did you see her face when she saw me? It's like she thought I was going to eat her."

"Oh my goodness," gasped Carol. "Quinton, is this what I think it is?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What?" asked Santa. "What's in there?"

"He writes about them like they're cattle."

She handed the stack of papers to her husband. He squinted at the page, muttering the words under his breath. Half a paragraph into the first sheet, he grew silent.

"Oh my god," he whispered. He tore his eyes away from the yellowed paper and fixed his eyes on Curtis.

"You should read these."

Curtis took the letter from him. He read to the bottom of the first page, and his face suddenly grew whiter than the paper between his fingers.

"I'll go and fetch her, shall I? And another thing, just so it's been said, if I had my way, that girl would have welcomed back like a hero."

The last he directed at Bernard, who continued to avoid his gaze as though the act of looking anyone in the eye would turn him to stone. As soon as the door was shut behind Quinton, heavy silence fell upon the room.

"That's not all," said Bernard quietly.

"There's more?"

He nodded but did not elaborate.

"Bernard, what is it?" urged Carol. "What did he do?"

"It's not – compared to _that_ it's no big deal but - "

"Go on."

"He would drink, and he would get angry, and then he would..."

Bernard took several shaking breaths. Carol came around his chair and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Was he violent?

"Couple times a month, once a week. Sometimes more. Less after those started."

"I never noticed," said Curtis quietly.

"That was the idea."

"His or yours?" asked Santa.

Bernard shrugged. "Both. I thought if I let him do whatever he wanted to me, he'd leave the others alone. Quinton figured it out. Lydia picked up on it almost immediately. They both notice everything."

"Bernard, how did this happen?"

"Let me just put it this way. I don't think Lydia was the first person he ever killed."

"No."

"When he came to the Pole that first night, he was drunk, and there was blood on his jacket. I never found out what happened, but I always suspected."

"And he was just allowed to be Santa after that?"

"What were we supposed to do?"

"Couldn't you have found someone else?"

"Who? And where? That's why we were so lucky Lydia stumbled across the Pole. We were going to put her uncle in charge and force _him_ to step down. We never meant for him to die. Lydia insisted on that. 'I won't have an elf do murder.' Those were her exact words. But everything went so wrong," Bernard sighed. "For so long, I thought it was okay, because it was just me. Then she came, and she and Quinton made me realize how wrong I was. She shouldn't have died."

"But she didn't, Bernard," said Carol.

"And unless you hurled her off that roof yourself, I don't think you're responsible," added his boss.

The exhaustion came on suddenly, and Bernard slumped in his chair. Carol walked around the desk and put her arms around him. It felt similar to when Lydia embraced him, as though he could pour his pain into her, but it was still different somehow. Carol didn't hug him quite like Lydia, like a loving friend. There was something maternal in her embrace, a motherly affection that felt both strange and familiar and made him slightly uncomfortable.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," she said as she released him.

"Yeah well, it's like they said. We waited up for him. Quinton did the bulk of the work, getting everyone together. Lydia and I were in hiding. But he showed up at her house and ambushed us, I guess. He made us go to the roof with him. He had a gun. A real one. We go up there, and..."

His voice shook as he forced himself to continue. Each breath felt painful.

"He threw her off the roof. He didn't even think about it. Just picked her up and tossed her. He would have killed me, shot me, if not for Lydia's uncle. He saved my life."

Bernard went silent as he sank into memory.

"Bernard, why didn't you tell me any of this?" asked Santa.

His Head Elf looked up and gave a near-hysterical laugh.

"Now there's a festive conversation! Welcome to the North Pole, Home of the Unexpectedly High Body Count!"

"Were any of the elves killed," asked Carol, her face suddenly pale.

"No! No. Largely thanks to Quinton. I was pretty useless during the whole thing. It's not something I enjoy reliving. I'm not enjoying it much now honestly."

"I'm sure you did all you could."

Bernard scoffed darkly and turned his dark eyes to the floor. He wished very badly he could dematerialize and reappear in his bedroom so he could go back to bed like he had planned. The others would coax nothing more out of him. Mrs. Claus stacked the papers neatly on the desk. Santa shoved the entire pile toward a far corner then wiped his hands on his trousers as though they were dirty. They avoided looking at him, but occasionally he caught them watching him. His boss looked at him as though he were seeing him for the first time. Mrs. Claus looked like she was torn between putting her arms around him again and never letting him go and picking up every pencil in the cup on the desk and snapping them one by one. Curtis would not look at him at all. It did not matter. Quinton would return soon and a few apologies were in order. Until then, Bernard shoved himself as deep into his chair as he could in a vain effort to disappear, and waited.

* * *

 **A/N:** True Story: A long, long time ago, back when I was writing _In the Silence_ , I got an anonymous review from someone who somehow predicted this entire arc thus far (ie: William becoming Santa and Lydia becoming an elf.) To that person, if you are still reading this, ARE YOU A WIZARD? When I read that review, I literally turned and looked around me just to be sure I wasn't being watched.

I know this chapter is largely a rehash of the first story. But I felt like this was a conversation that needed to happen, and I promise the plot will begin to move forward next chapter. Since I felt this needed to take place, I tried to use the conversation to inform some of the character's emotions. I have to say that this is one of the hardest scenes I've ever written. Writing a scene where six people are talking was more challenging than I was expecting. Also I felt like Carol, having been a high school principal, would have had a conversation similar to this one before, regarding what happened to Bernard last time. So that was in my mind while I was writing this.

Title comes from "If You Could Read My Mind" by Gordon Lightfoot (though I was listening to the cover by Johnny Cash on his album _American V: A Hundred Highways_.)


	6. A Flag on the Marble Arch

**A/N:** Well I tried. In my defense, I wasn't expecting this chapter to be this long.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: A Flag on the Marble Arch**

It took Quinton longer than he expected to locate Lydia. Truthfully, he could not fathom why he thought he would find her standing right outside the door. As soon as he walked into the decidedly empty hallway, he set off in search of her.

The din of chatter echoed through the corridors. The North Pole had no need for a news program. The gossip chain sufficed to spread news throughout entire factory. In such an emotionally vulnerable state, Lydia would no doubt seek out the quiet solitude of some lonely corner outside the eyes and ears of his fellow workers. Few such corners existed inside the main workshop, but after countless years, Quinton knew them all. Thus he found her with relative ease standing between a column and a wall, backed into the corner like a wounded animal. Not wanting to startle her, he raised his hand to knock on the column, but his fist had not reached the height of his shoulder when she turned and looked him in the eye. Her face was quite pale, but so were the whites of her eyes, which told him she had not been crying.

"Hello," he said for want of anything else to say.

"I heard you coming."

"That's new," said Quinton, flashing a grin.

She looked away. Lydia grabbed a strand of hair behind her ear and twisted it between her fingers. He once again caught sight of the points of her ears and willed himself not to stare. Quinton suddenly realized that he had never seen her hair arranged this way, half-braided, the rest hanging free. He might have made a comment on the style looking becoming, but he thought it might upset her. She fidgeted where she stood, but she had nowhere to run.

"Are you alright?"

"Quinton, what am I doing here?"

"I believe you were about to answer that when everything went sideways."

"I am so sorry," she exclaimed. Her face flushed red, and she buried her face in her hands.

"Don't be. It's been far too long since someone was able to genuinely terrify Curtis," said Quinton, making another attempt at humor.

"I should be beyond this sort of thing."

"What, emotions? You're only human, my dear."

"Am I?"

"Oh dear. I think the situation is a bit more complicated than I thought."

Lydia scoffed lightly and leaned against the wall.

 _Yes, I agree_ , thought Quinton. _Complicated is putting it mildly. And for your sake, I shall ignore your very Bernard-like body language._

"Look," Quinton began. "He didn't mean any harm. I know what he said was entirely out of line, but he really didn't know."

"How could he not know, Quinton? How could he not have seen?"

"Curtis is a brilliant inventor. And he has his moments, I promise you, he does. But sometimes…all right, most of the time, he's just clueless. There's not a malicious bone in him. He's just…" Quinton paused looking for the least insulting word he could find. "Misguided. Look, I'm not saying you should apologize. It was incredibly insensitive to say those things in front of you and Bernard. If you could avoid killing him though, I would consider it a personal favor."

Lydia looked into his earnest face.

"I will try."

She attempted a smile, but it fell quickly as her gaze fell once more to the floor.

Quinton leaned against the wall next to her.

"What's the matter," he asked quietly.

Lydia took a deep breath. Quinton could see that her face was lined with some kind of deep impenetrable pain. He waited until at last she spoke.

"He won't even look at me. Quinton, I dreamed of him nearly every night while I was in Elbereth. I couldn't remember my name or where I was born or how I got there, but somehow, I remembered him. As soon as I got here, I remembered everything, and I knew I had to find him. And now, it's as though something's broken between us."

Quinton sighed.

"We both know Bernard can be a stubborn fool when it suits him. But he's in shock. We all are. And this lot will be too by the end of the day."

He gestured toward the crowd of elves milling about on the factory floor.

"Maybe Curtis is right then," said Lydia. "I am a Disturber of the Peace. In more ways than one."

Quinton could not help but laugh.

"Sometimes the peace needs to be disturbed. If it were sunny every day and never rained, how would the plants grow?"

"I'm not sure much of anything grows here, Quinton."

"You know what I mean. In any case, just because you're one of us now doesn't mean you're not allowed to have feelings. Unless our woodland counterparts are missing part of their upper cranial development."

He tried to see if his sardonic remark had at least managed a grin from her, but still she stared at the floor, her face grim and taut. Quinton stood in front of her and took hold of her shoulders, looking at her face until she met his eyes.

"You've been through so much," he said. "Much more than any human should have to endure. And these people making you into an elf isn't going to change that you were, for all intents and purposes, murdered, and are now, more or less, without any family. You've just been accused of murder by the very people you have come here to help, and your closest friend is not exactly giving you the warmest of greetings. I would be more concerned if you didn't have some kind of outburst. As for our mutual friend, give him time. This is all a bit much for all of us, and more still to come I imagine. We'll all have to do our own adjusting. I'm sure as he gets used to the situation, he'll come round."

Lydia closed her eyes and sighed.

"Come back," he urged. "We'll get it sorted. Though, maybe you should do most of the talking this time."

Lydia considered it for a moment then groaned.

"I don't know, Quinton. I'm not convinced _he'll_ want me back. I think he's frightened of me."

"You don't know that. He wanted to come after you himself, but I wouldn't allow it. Bernard is a complex elf, tough on the outside but loving and affectionate on the in-oh you're talking about Santa. Did I not mention? No, I suppose I didn't. He believes your story now."

"Really, Quinton?"

"Yes, really. I showed him the original documents, the letters and what-have-you, and he came round."

"You kept them, after all these years?"

"Yes, yes, I have already been properly chastised for my resourcefulness. Are you coming?"

She sighed with resignation.

"All right," she said. "Lead the way. "

When they arrived back at the office doors, Quinton knocked as a courtesy then walked in without waiting for an answer. Bernard was scowling in his chair and seemed to be avoiding eye contact with all the other occupants of the room. Lydia crossed the office space to him, ignoring all the others. She knelt beside him and put her hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry," she whisper. "I didn't mean to-"

Bernard shook his head, cutting her off.

"I told them everything."

Shocked, Lydia finally looked at the others. Tears were in Carol's eyes. Beside her, her husband looked as though someone had cut out his tongue. Curtis had gone completely white.

Bernard tore his eyes away from hers and pulled his arm from her grip.

Lydia continued staring at him for a few moments until Quinton put a hand on her shoulder. She held back a sigh and got to her feet.

"Sir, allow me to apologize for my outburst," she began, but the Clauses waved off her apology and ushered her into the chair next to Bernard. Quinton stood like a sentinel behind her.

"You'll have to forgive us," said Carol. This is a lot to take in."

"I understand, Madam. You must have many, many questions for me."

"I'll say. Let's start with, if you died way back when, how are you here now?"

Before Lydia could answer, there was a knock at the door. Curtis opened it, and the elf-maid Judy walked in carrying a tray laden with several mugs.

"I brought you the cocoa you asked for Santa," she said as she set the tray down on the desk.

Judy turned to leave when she caught sight of Lydia. Her jaw dropped. Then her face broke into a massive smile.

"I heard you were back!" she exclaimed. Lydia stood to greet her, and Judy threw her arms around her. Lydia stood frozen by the gesture, but after a moment, she returned it.

"I didn't believe it," said Judy. "I'm so glad to see you. I just can't believe it. How is this happening?"

"Judy, I think she was about to get into that," said Santa.

"Yeah, so if you want to get back to the kitchens," added Curtis.

Judy's face fell.

"No, please, sir let her stay," said Lydia as she returned to her chair. "She was very helpful to us before."

"Really?" said Curtis.

"I had to have an accomplice I could trust," said Quinton. "She and Abby made magnificent spies."

Judy smiled, and her already sparkling face glowed.

"Fine with me. Now about how you managed to come back from the dead," said Santa.

"I'm way more curious about the other elves," interrupted Carol.

"There are other elves?" Judy squeaked. "And they're coming here?"

"According to her," said Carol.

"Where are they? Where do they come from? What is like there? What about the other elves? How are they related to these us? Are they really different? Are we going to meet them? What are they like?"

"At the moment they are very cold and growing impatient," said a voice from the doorway.

Lydia immediately rose to her feet at the sight of her commander standing beneath the archway.

"Gilrohir."

The newcomer stood a tall and stony presence in the doorway. He was clad in travelling gear with no armor, but unlike his subordinate, he had not left his weaponry behind. His quiver and bow were strapped to his back, and twin daggers lay flush against his boots. A sword hung from his belt. He also carried a black horn, which hung like a shining crescent opposite his blade. His golden hair was arranged much like Lydia's, with a thin intricate braid hanging over the sheet of yellow which flowed down to the middle of his back. His dark blue eyes had pinpricks of light in their irises, and they glared at the occupants of the room.

"May I introduce my commanding officer, Gilrohir."

Everyone, save Lydia, stared at the newcomer. Quinton looked upon him in awe, as a paleontologist would look if he came home to find a brachiosaurus in his backyard. Judy's face flushed at the sight of Gilrohir, and Carol clutched at the collar of her dress.

"Good grief, you are pretty," said Santa.

Gilrohir's stared at him.

"Thank you, sir," he said slowly. "I am spoken for."

The elf commander snapped his gaze toward his protege.

" _Minariel, what have you been doing? Who is this man?"*_

"It's hard to explain."

" _Perhaps you should try doing it in Elvish?"_

Lydia blinked at him for a moment.

" _Gilrohir, may I speak with you a moment?"_

Gilrohir ignored the bemused expressions on the others' faces and strode out the door.

"A moment, please," said Lydia to the group, then she followed her commander and closed the door behind them.

As soon as she had joined him, Gilrohir attempted to round on her, but she cut him off before he could say a word.

" _Gilrohir, that man and his wife are human."_

" _Yes, I know."_

" _I am human. Or rather, I was."_

Gilrohir stared at her a long moment.

" _I know."_

Lydia was not finished. Despite the frustrated glower on Gilrohir's face, she pressed on.

"My name is Lydia Hightower. My father's name was Richard, and my mother's name was Margaret. I had two younger sisters. My middle sister's name was Josephine, and my youngest sister we called Meg. They all perished in a fire when I was very young. I was raised by my father's older brother. His name was William, and he was the finest man I have ever known."

" _Is this necessary?"_

"Why didn't you tell me? You knew who I was and where I came from all that time. You had to have known. Why didn't you tell me?"

Gilrohir stared her down, his eyes boring into her, irate at her insolence, but she stared right back, her jaw set.

"I couldn't," he said.

"Balderdash," insisted Lydia. "For one hundred and fifty years, I couldn't remember my own name, let alone where I came from."

"I had my orders, the same as you," growled Gilrohir. "Lady Varda's instructions were explicit. Tell you nothing. You had to remember on your own."

"Why?" she demanded.

"I have no idea. I do know that we still have a mission to complete, and don't you forget it. Now who are those people?"

"They're who we're here to see. All save the man and woman at the desk, everyone here, everyone in the village. They're all elves, Gilrohir. Every single one of them. Lady Varda was right. I did know the way."

Gilrohir looked about him with an impenetrable look on his face. Lydia could not begin to fathom what thoughts may be going through her commander's mind.

"Shall we go back in then?" she asked.

Gilrohir looked at her and raised an annoyed eyebrow.

"Introduce us. And properly this time. Then you perhaps you can explain to me what in the world is going on here."

"I will try, though it may be difficult, and some of them might need to fill in the gaps."

"As long as I get some answers."

They returned to the office once more. Santa Claus stood and held out his hand to Gilrohir. Gilrohir looked at Lydia, and at her silent assurance, held out his right hand. The man at the desk shook it, and when he told the elf commander his name, Gilrohir merely looked at him blankly. The name meant nothing to him.

"This is my wife, Carol," continued Santa. "Judy works in the kitchens. Quinton's head of Research and Development. Curtis works there too, and he's our Number Two elf, under Bernard here, who's our Head Elf. He's my second in command."

Bernard, who had all but won his staring contest with the floor, finally allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and looked up at Lydia's commander.

Gilrohir had taken a good look at every person as he heard their name. He scanned each of them with his penetrating gaze. He had done so with the same deliberately disinterested stare that Bernard met him with now. Yet when his midnight eyes met Bernard's deep brown ones, his jaw nearly dropped. He stared at Bernard with an inexplicable expression for several moments, until Bernard began to fidget under the weight of his gaze. For the first time since she had known him, Lydia saw something akin to uncertainty on Gilrohir's face.

" _Gilrohir? Is something wrong?"_

Her voice seemed to break through his mystified spell, and Gilrohir shook his head.

"I know you all have many questions," said Lydia addressing the room. "But would it not be better to delay any more conversation until the others have arrived? As you said, Gilrohir, they must be impatient to come in."

Gilrohir tore his eyes away from Bernard and gave her a hard look. Without a word, he walked to the window and opened it. He removed the horn from his belt and brought it to his lips. The call burst forth from the window and echoed out into the village and beyond. Quinton, Curtis, and the Clauses joined Gilrohir at the window and looked out onto the grounds. All the elves of the North Pole that were out on the grounds had turned toward the source of the horn blast and were looking toward the window with bemusement. Some looked alarmed. Gilrohir made the call three times then turned to his subordinate.

"Come."

The Clauses, Curtis, Quinton, and Bernard followed them out of the office, out of the factory, and onto the village grounds.

"This is it, Bernard," said Quinton, practically bouncing alongside him again. "We're about to meet the elves. Our relatives. This is so exciting!"

Bernard paid no attention to him. Quinton was alone in his excitement. They could hear the clanging of metal and muffled hoofbeats. It sounded louder and louder until it turned to thunder which echoed throughout the village. The elves all stopped their activity and looked toward the source of the rumbling noise. A dark line formed on the horizon and became larger and more clear as the company approached.

The elves began forming groups and fretted amongst themselves. As the riders arrived in the village, several of the elves cried out in fear.

"It's alright!" yelled Santa and his wife. "It's okay, everyone."

"Everything's fine," said Carol. "Don't be afraid."

Curtis, Quinton, and Lydia all went about the elves as well, offering their reassurances that the elves should not be afraid. Bernard did so himself and stood between the elves and the incoming group, shielding a group of particularly young elves from the riders.

"Geez, Gilrohir, you could have at least given us time to warn them," yelled Santa over the sound of hoofbeats and the frightened clamor of the elves.

Elves who had been working in the factories had run out to see what the commotion was. Judy found her coworkers in the kitchens and told them in brief what was happening and urged them to stand back. All the elves were out in the village now. They shrunk back as the horses came nearer, some of them taking refuge behind their leaders.

" _Daro!"_

At Gilrohir's command, the riders formed a line and halted their horses. Gilrohir barked another command, and they dismounted. In a single file line, they marched toward their commander. As soon as they reached their commander, the company turned in unison and stood at attention before him. At his third command, they did an about-face, their gear rattling as they turned their backs to their commander and faced the occupants of the village.

Gilrohir rose his voice.

"I hereby present, the Elves of Elbereth."

* * *

*Italics indicate dialog spoken in Elvish.

-Title from "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen


	7. The Young and the Old

**A/N:** A bit later than I hoped, but it's also much longer than I anticipated. This chapter and the next were actually originally the same chapter, but if I kept them together, it would be ridiculously long and be out much later. I told myself that it was going up today whether I feel ready or not, so here we are. Please enjoy.

* * *

 **Chapter 6:** **The Young and the Old**

Silence fell upon the open plain of snow. Not a whisper snuck through the company of either party. The wood elves stood at attention, awaiting the orders of their commander. The elves of the Pole huddled together behind their own leaders, uncertain of how to react to the newcomers. Gilrohir turned his head and looked at his youngest subordinate with his perpetual aloof gaze. Lydia looked to Quinton, who looked to his own boss. Santa cleared his throat and stepped forward.

"It's okay everybody. They're visitors from, um, uh….Maybe you three ought to take the reins here."

He stepped back again and gestured for Lydia and Quinton to step forward. Bernard remained stubbornly where he stood, a sentinel between the wood elves and his own. Lydia tried to meet his gaze, but he had turned to speak to the young elves cowering behind him and never once looked back toward her. She took a step toward them and raised her voice.

"Good day, everyone. I am Lydia Hightower."

At this pronouncement a mild tremor shivered through the company of wood elves. At a glare from their commander, they quieted, and she continued.

"I know you are all confused and frightened, and you have every right to be. I imagine there have been rumors aplenty going about today. It is true that I have come back to you. I know you all thought I died many years ago, but these people, they saved me. They took me to their home. They are elves, just like you. They come from a very long way away from a place called Elbereth. It's a forest, far far away from here. But they have been looking for you. They have wanted to find you for many, many years. I assure you they mean you no harm."

"They're related to us," said Quinton. "They've come to tell us about where we came from and who we are."

Lydia turned on her heel and addressed the wood elves.

" _They are elves. I know this place. I do not know how they came to be here, but they are most certainly elves. They are my friends._ "

The wood elves listened to her words with rapt attention. Not a single emotion glanced their faces as they took in what she said, but their eyes were alight when they looked to their leader.

"Gilrohir?" said Orëna.

" _I believe Minariel is correct. They appear to be elves. They are no doubt children. Therefore, these must be the Children of Hollin_ ," said their commander flatly.

"Gilrohir?"

" _Yes, Orëna?"_

" _Permission to be excited?_ "

Gilrohir glared at her. He looked at the faces of all his party, each one barely concealing their own eagerness.

" _Granted._ "

As soon as the words left his lips, the company erupted into elation.

"Look at them all," cried Orëna. "They're babies. Look! They're so small!"

The other members of the group were more subdued in their joy but barely. The elves of the Pole took a collective step or six back away from the ecstatic outsiders, finding their sudden exuberance just as frightening as their seemingly aggressive entrance.

"Small and shy," said Orёna, dropping her voice to nearly a whisper. "We're sorry. Please don't be frightened."

"Yes, please do not be afraid. We are so very happy to see you," said Elrodan.

"We thought you were dead," added Orëna.

"Dead?!" blurted out Santa. "You thought they were dead?"

"For many years, our people had only the faintest of hopes that they survived," said Elrodan.

"Survived what?"

"Maybe they don't remember," said Orëna to her commander.

Gilrohir raised his voice.

"Who amongst you is the eldest?"

"I am."

Bernard still did not step forward. He remained in front of his elves even as he spoke. The eyes of all the wood elves were on him. A few whispered in their own language to each other in hushed voices. More than a couple of the elves looked at him with dropped jaws. Gilrohir once again barked an order at them, and they once more stood at attention. His armor clanked as he strode toward Bernard.

"What do you remember?" he demanded.

The Head Elf merely stared at him. Gilrohir frowned.

"Before you came to be here, what do you remember of then?"

Bernard shook his head. "We've always been here. For as long as I can remember."

Elrodan and Orëna walked over to stand next to Gilrohir.

" _Maybe we're in the wrong place_ ," whispered Elrodan.

" _No, look at them_ ," said Orëna. " _Look at the ears. Look at their eyes. They're elves. And what other elves could there possibly be?_ "

" _Minariel led us to them, as Lady Varda foresaw. These are the Children of Hollin. I have no doubt. Though_ he _should remember._ "

"It was a long time ago, Gilrohir."

"Elrodan's right," said Orëna. "He would have only been a boy at the time."

" _He still is."_

Gilrohir turned away and began surveying the rest of the elves. The elves of the Pole seemed to shrink under his severe gaze. Bernard's eyes followed him with an expression that was no less cross than the one the elven commander had given him.

"Don't mind him," said Elrodan.

"Yeah, he's always like that," added Orëna apologetically.

"What did he say?" asked Bernard.

Orëna and Elrodan looked taken aback. They shared a look, then Orëna forced a smile.

"Nothing. He's just being crotchety."

Elrodan's face took on a bemused expression. He went to Gilrohir's side.

"I'm afraid this is going to take some time."

* * *

Elrodan's prediction turned out to be correct. In spite of their initial apprehensions, the elves of the North Pole quickly warmed to the newcomers. The Clauses offered the small garrison bedrooms on the vast grounds of the Pole to stay in, but Gilrohir spoke for the collective and turned them down. In wake of their leader's sharp rebuke regarding the need to keep their senses sharp, the company pitched tents out on the grounds on the outskirts of the village. This did not stop the younger elves from taking breaks from their duties to bring their woodland kin comforts of the indoors. Morning and night, Judy sent her underlings down to the campsite with warm drinks and food, and the seamstresses provided them with blankets that were far more ornate and comfortable than the austere bedding they had brought with them.

The warm reception was, Gilrohir's cold demeanor notwithstanding, equally reciprocated. The wood elves took great joy in the task of becoming acquainted with their younger brethren. Most of the wood elves rose early each morning and wandered through the village and the factory where they allowed the elves of the Pole to demonstrate their daily tasks.

Despite the isolation of their surroundings, Gilrohir enforced a regular night watch, wherein the elves rotated who of their company would stand outside their encampment and keep their eyes on the icy horizon. Yet even the guards were not left out, as the Pole never seemed to sleep. Without prompting or invitation, the kitchen elves also took it in turns to wander out to the campsite by night to keep the guards company and refresh them with warm drinks.

When the wood elves drilled and sparred out on the grounds, they were guaranteed to have an audience. Either the younger elves did not understand or did not care that their mock fights were for practice rather than for show, as they applauded the "winners" of the combat drills, much to the annoyance of the wood elves' commander. To Gilrohir's even greater irritation, some of the elves even began to pick favorites and cheer them on from the sidelines.

"They will be forming betting pools next," groused Gilrohir to Elrodan, who barely managed to conceal his amusement at his companion's aggravation.

The wood elves, for their part, did not seem to mind and took to bowing at the sound of their young audience's appreciation. Archery drills were no less popular. Young elves approached their woodland counterparts and asked to hold the bows. The wood elves happily obliged, showing them how to properly nock and draw an arrow, though none of them could actually pull the strings of the wood elves' bows back to full draw.

"Do not be downhearted, little ones," said Imharion, a dark-haired elf with pale purple eyes and a strong chin, to a group of frowning elf-children. "The draw weight of our bows is immense, so that we may better shoot at long distances. Orëna, let them try your bow."

Orëna's bow was thicker and shorter than the longbows used by the other wood elves and made of the horn of what must have been an enormous animal. Not a single elf child could draw back the string a single inch. Imharion took it from them and pulled back the string. He could only draw it back a few inches. Orëna took it back and plucked an arrow out of a nearby quiver. A second later it landed neatly in the center of the target. Imharion did not quite manage to look annoyed as she smirked at him.

"It's these thick dwarf arms," said Orëna, patting her bicep.

Imharion muttered something in Elvish under his breath as he went to collect his arrows from the target.

"What did he say?" asked one of the elves.

Orëna smiled broadly at them.

"He called me a show-off."

When Imharion returned, he picked up his own bow. Orëna quieted the chattering elves as he fitted an arrow and took aim. The elves heard a soft crack as Imharion's arrow split Orëna's in half. He flashed a toothy grin at Orëna as the elves clapped.

"Now who's a show-off?"

"Can't take the competition, stay off the range," countered Imharion.

"You're wasting ammunition! Don't you realize we could be under attack at any moment?!" barked Orëna in such a perfect imitation of their their stern commander that Imharion doubled over and let his bow hit the snow with a soft thud.

" _CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"_

The little elves giggled while Imharion frantically looked about through tear-filled eyes to make sure their leader was out of earshot.

"How do you get away with that?" he asked.

"He knows I'm a lost cause," said Orëna with a shrug.

Imharion collected himself and picked up his bow.

"Aren't we all?"

* * *

Days passed and turned into a fortnight, wherein the wood elves and the elves of the Poles spent their nights and days learning of one another. The wood elves took great joy in the company of their young kin, often following them about as they worked and asking them questions. Within a week, most of the wood elves could recite "Twas the Night Before Christmas" from memory, though few of them truly understood its meaning.

Bernard and Lydia saw very little of each other, though not for want of Lydia looking. They hardly ever seemed to cross paths. Bernard remained determined to spend his time corralling his charges back to their work stations, which at this time was more like herding cats than it had ever been. Busy as Gilrohir kept her, Lydia became desperate to speak with him properly. Yet, on the few occasions she managed to corner him, he would either spot some - likely nonexistent - mischief making in the distance and run off, or she would catch some of the elves whispering about them nearby. By the time she had finished shooing them away, Bernard had disappeared.

The wood elves were not satisfied with learning only of the goings on of the Pole, and they longed to learn more of the world the elves had hidden themselves in and of the humans that occupied it. Orëna in particular became fast friends with Quinton. They could often be found walking with their heads close together, engaged in rapid conversation. eager for him to show her something new or making excited commentary on the Pole's architecture. Their association began one night when Orëna, having only mere minutes before been introduced to the head of Research and Development, practically dragged him outside into the dark and under the sky.

"Quinton, my lad. Minariel tells me that you study the sciences."

"I do."

"Excellent. Then perhaps you can answer a question for us ignorant wood elves."

Orëna waved a massive hand in the air, summoning nearly a dozen other wood elves to gather around them.

"I can certainly try," said Quinton, not certain at all.

"Good, good. What, pray tell, is _that_?"

She pointed a finger toward the sky at the purple and green light which furled like a giant ribbon across the dark background.

"That is the aurora borealis. Named for the Greco-Roman goddess of the dawn, it occurs when plasma particles from the solar wind collide with the Earth's electro-magnetic field."

Quinton might as well have given his explanation in Pig Latin for all the wood elves understood it. He tried again, explaining about sunspots and magnets and atoms, but still the wood elves stared at him like he was a fish who had just leaped out of the water and started talking. Quinton held back a sigh.

"Perhaps I had better start from the beginning."

Minutes later, a dozen wood elves flooded Quinton's lab. Orëna sat on a stool with a globe and began cheerfully spinning it as fast as it would go. She let the tips of her thick fingers coast along the Earth's surface, then slapped her palm down against it to make it stop.

"These bumpy bits all over, are those mountains?"

"Yes, they are. The tallest one is here, in Nepal."

Quinton spun the globe around and pointed his finger over Mount Everest. Then he spun the globe again and tapped a spot in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

"Though, the largest mountain by base area and volume is Mauna Loa, here in Hawaii."

"Such strange names," said Elrodan. "They are not the same language?"

"No. Humans have thousands, if not millions of culture groups. It would take an eternity to study them all."

"Where are we?" asked a young lady elf, who Orëna introduced as her healing student Naurelin.

"Right here, at the top," said Quinton. "The North Pole. And the South Pole is here on the-"

"On the other side," finished Orëna.

"The earth's poles are an effect of Earth's magnetic field. It's generated in the core. Molten iron and nickel spinning incredibly quickly at the center of the sphere."

Quinton went further, explaining the layers of the Earth and geology to his fascinated companions. Orëna's coppery eyes lit up.

"For millenia, my people mined in the mountains, digging up metal ore and gemstones. My mother's people practically worship the mountains. Yet, I never questioned where they came from, how those ores and gems came to be. You say the mortals discovered all this?"

"Yes. Deprivation of magic has made them rather inventive. They're a curious lot."

"You've studied all this? What do you do with it?" asked Elrodan.

Quinton felt a quick moment of panic, the sort one might feel when asked to name a favorite book or pastime, only to find the mind completely blank of everything one's ever read or done.

"Lots of things," said Quinton after a moment of reflection. He began to explain about medicine and flight, traffic signs and television, calculators and anything he could think of until even his head began to spin.

"But what do _you_ do with it, all the way up here?"

"We make toys."

Quinton knew how ridiculous that sounded as soon as those three little words came out of his mouth. Most of the wood elves resumed staring at him blankly, but after a moment Orëna buried her face in her hand. Quinton could hear her snickering behind her hand, and Elrodan nudged her hard on the shoulder.

"No, no," she said, struggling to breathe. "Don't misunderstand me. It's _wonderful._ "

Quinton still felt perturbed by her amusement and the dumbfounded confusion of the elves. With his pride still stinging, he began to explain in simple terms about combining magic and jet propulsion and demonstrated the concept by pulling out an E.L.F.S. jet pack, much to the wood elves' open mouth astonishment.

They all agreed that there was far too much for Quinton to cover in a single hour, and he invited the wood elves to return after he had made up some notes. They bade him farewell before exiting the lab. Afterward, only Orëna and Elrodan remained.

"So," began Orëna as she spun the globe lazily and twisted back and forth on her stool. "Minariel."

"Yes," said Quinton. He paused briefly as he rifled through a filing cabinet. "Or Lydia, that being her human name. What about her?"

"You're friends?"

"Yes."

"And Bernard? The elder one?"

"He's my best friend. Why?"

"What's he like?" asked Elrodan.

"I don't know. He's sort of complicated. Brooding and snarky. Compassionate and caring. Why do you not introduce yourselves and get to to know him?"

"He doesn't seem too much inclined toward conversation," said Elrodan.

"No, not very talkative that one," agreed Orëna.

"Probably in shock, poor thing."

"That's no excuse," said Orëna. "He should be leading talks and such, not hiding from them. What does it say that the little ones are more open to us than he is?"

"Perhaps he is more set in his ways. After all, he doesn't remember any more than they do."

"That's true, I suppose. Little ones are nice and springy that way."

"He's very devoted to what we do," said Quinton, fidgeting with the papers between his fingers. He pulled out a file and slammed the drawer shut. "Although, you may be right. I'm afraid he hasn't taken any of this at all well. He was shaken by Lydia's return. He barely had time to recover from that when you arrived."

"And Minariel?" asked Elrodan.

"I've hardly had time to speak with her," said Quinton with a frown.

"You three were quite a group, I imagine," said Orëna, earning a quick smile from Quinton. "Tell us about your time with her."

"She hasn't told you herself?"

"No, she didn't remember before we arrived, and ever since we did, she's been a bit quiet," explained Orëna.

Quinton liked all of the wood elves. Even Gilrohir's stern leadership endeared him for reasons he could not quite explain. Perhaps his stubborn devotion was a little familiar. Elrodan and Orëna in particular he found he liked very much. Their camaraderie and eagerness to learn, added with the fact that they treated him not like a centuries old child, but rather like the learned scholar he was, and a like mind, made him feel more or less instantly close to them. He therefore felt no qualms whatsoever about telling them the entire story.

"My goodness," was all Elrodan could say when he had finished.

Orëna recovered only a bit faster. Her face bore a look of grave shock, as she muttered something under her breath in a language Quinton did not recognize. He only knew enough to know that it was not Elvish. She shook her head and tugged at her braided beard, and a twinkle came into her eye.

"Quinton, my lad," she said. "How are you at matchmaking?"

Quinton blinked at her. As soon as his mind caught up with hers, he began to vigorously shake his head.

"Oh no," he said. "Bernard hates it when I meddle."

"I doubt that would stop someone like you."

"Ordinarily no, but they've both been through quite a shock. I think we should give them time to work it out for themselves, before we start putting in our oars."

"Eh?"

Quinton put on a smile of his own.

"Orëna, you are going to _love_ Gilbert and Sullivan."

* * *

Orëna and Elrodan were far from the only ones interested in learning all that the human world had to offer. Thus one day, as Carol straightened up her office, she heard a knock at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Lydia walked into the room. She looked nervous.

"Carol, may I ask you something?"

"Absolutely."

"Quinton told me that you used to be a schoolteacher?"

"I was a high school principal."

Lydia's head tilted to one side.

"Sort of like a headmistress, I think you would say. I ran the school."

"I see. Did you do any teaching yourself?"

"I did, before I was promoted."

"Would you happen to have any books from those days?"

"You want to read? At a time like this?"

"I've been away so long. Away from the human world, that is. Even though so much has changed, I feel as though part of me will always be human."

"You want to get caught up?"

"Yes, please. Quinton said he'd help me learn about modern science, but if you had any history books-"

Something seemed to light up inside Carol.

"Definitely," she said as she beamed at Lydia. "I can absolutely help you get caught up in history. Anything else?"

"Literature, perhaps. Culture in general. I keep hearing references to things I don't understand."

Her eye caught a doll standing on a shelf. She picked it up and looked into its plastic face. She was not a baby doll like Lydia remembered from her childhood. Rather the doll was in the mold of a young woman, tall and slender with long voluminous hair. She wore a gown in light gold fabric with embroidery in silver threads and a circlet with three rhinestone gems in her hair. Her face shimmered under her silvery makeup. Lydia worked the doll's limbs and frowned at the limited movement of her joints. She returned the doll to its shelf.  
"This world was once my home, but I don't know it anymore. I'd like to get reacquainted."

"I would love to help you do that. Give me some time, and I'll see what I can track down, book-wise."

Thrilled as Lydia was to have her help, she was astonished to find that Carol did one better. Several of the wood elves, including Orëna and Elrodan, also expressed interest in learning about human culture and history. Elrodan especially, historian of the elves, viewed their expedition as an opportunity to learn as much about the human species as he could. At Gilrohir's tepid response to his enthusiasm, Elrodan gave him a fervent reminder.

"These elves have been isolated all this time, except for their interactions with humans. If we have any hope to understand what they have become and the lives they have led, we must endeavor to understand the human world as well."

Thus Carol sought out an empty room and filled it with chairs and tables. She mounted a whiteboard and a large screen on one wall, and covered the rest of the walls in bulletin boards and educational posters she had kept from her days as a high school principal.

"Nice touch," said Santa, looking at a poster of a green creature with large ears holding a book that said 'READ and the Force is With You.' "but I don't think these guys are going to understand the reference."

"One more thing to put on the list then."

"Ah yes, after the World Wars came the Star Wars."

"Lydia said she wanted to get caught up on human culture as well as history, so film history is something we'll discuss. You never know, maybe one of the wood elves will end up a fan."

Carol, delighted to be at the front of a classroom full of eager students, threw herself into teaching. Quinton assisted, lightening her load by hosting workshops in the lab and teaching the wood elves about science.

Orëna was a regular fixture at these workshops and often visited him at other times, going so far as to offer insight on the applications of certain elements. Within days of his explaining the basics of physics and chemistry, she had the entire periodic table memorized, a feat she credited to her dwarven ancestry, even if she did not fully understand yet all the table meant. She also read every book he could find for her on medicine. As soon as she had finished one, she gave it to Naurelin with orders to read it as soon as possible. The pair could often be seen at mealtimes, poring over anatomical diagrams with a mug in one hand and a pen in the other. One night, Quinton finally became curious enough to look over their shoulders at their notes, only to find he could not make out a single word. The elf ladies each had a sheet in front of them. The one in front of Naurelin was in an elegant flowing script, while the one in front of Orëna was scrawled in a blocky geometric lettering.

"We're translating them," said Naurelin, storing her pen behind her ear, a practice both she and Orëna seemed to have picked up from him. "For back home."

Soon after this, Orëna eagerly granted Quinton's request to teach him Elvish, though he found the intricacies of its script and grammar far more difficult than he anticipated.

Other elves displayed other interests. Elrodan had to negotiate with Lydia over whose turn it was with Carol's history books. While he was occupied with one volume, he spent his time reading literature. He developed a particular fondness for Marquez and Tennyson. He became determined to memorize Tennyson's _In Memoriam_ in its entirety, a goal which astonished Carol and had Santa himself muttering under his breath at its sheer audacity, once his wife explained that her copy of the poem was nearly eighty pages long.

As eager as the wood elves were to allow their new young to teach them all they knew, they were equally reticent to reciprocate. Certainly they were willing to teach them new skills and their language, especially to the oldest among them, but they were very reluctant to discuss the past, answering only in the vaguest terms when asked. They told stories and legends which seemed almost like they had come from a book of faerie tales rather than history. Little bits of trivia about the culture of Hollin were all the elves got from their woodland kin. Even Orëna was oddly quiet about Hollin's fate when Quinton questioned her about it.

"You're young," was all she said. "I don't think we expected you to be so young."

Only the oldest and sharpest among the elves appeared to mind or even notice for that matter. They had acquired, quite literally overnight, a few dozen elder cousins and were more than content to simply become acquainted with them person to person. Most of the wood elves felt the same, lovingly attentive as their young friends showed them aspects of their lives that to those at the Pole were routine, but to the oldest of eyes, were new and wondrous.

Not all was well though. One night found Gilrohir staring at the wisps of green and purple against the black of the sky. The crunch of snow behind him signalled that he was no longer alone.

"What troubles you?" said Elrodan.

"I do not know these stars."

"So learn them," retorted his companion. "They have names. The humans know more of the stars then we ever could."

Gilrohir said nothing.

"There's something else, Gilrohir," said Orëna. "What's wrong?"

"This peace cannot last."

"What do you mean?" asked Elrodan. He laid a hand on Gilrohir's armored shoulder.

Gilrohir stared out into the endless expanse of ice and snow. He shook his head.

"A smell, a tremor in the ground, a shift in the air. I cannot name it."

If his companions had not known him better, they might have said they saw him shudder. He turned and looked at them, his face like stone.

"Something is coming. I can feel it."

Gilrohir then turned away from the blankets of darkness and ice and headed back toward camp, and his companions, filled now with silent unease, followed him.

* * *

 **A/N:** You have no idea how hard it was for me to resist geeking out in this chapter. Astronomy, geology, anthropology, poetry, and history are all strong interests of mine. I had to cut Quinton - and myself - off somewhere. This chapter about killed me, but I'll be honest, I had fun showing off a bit. I know this chapter's a bit Bernard (and Lydia) light, but they'll be back in the next chapter, along with the dialogue. And I swear the plot's going to happen soon.

*Italics indicate dialog spoken in Elvish.

-Title adapted from "Carol of the Bells"


End file.
